


philia

by flybbfly



Series: philia verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, even when it's not, everyone coincidentally speaks french, everyone is a stoner, everyone is coincidentally from francophone countries, everything is secretly a discussion about imperialism, imperialism is rly fucked up, who knows what visual arts majors do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 100,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybbfly/pseuds/flybbfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ABC is a social justice group at Grantaire's university. Grantaire stumbles into the group by accident, only to find that the president is someone he's met before.</p><p>Warnings: lots of drinking; lots of recreational drug use—mostly marijuana and ad(h)d meds, though I'll warn if any chapter includes others; vague allusions to depression; generally very anxious characters; pretensions abound, but you probably got that from the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. september; or, meet cute

_prelude:_

**december 15 _  
_ read week, fall semester**

He is not merely tired. He is exhaustion personified.

He's the kind of exhaustion that comes after three straight days of writing thirty page papers (four in total) and trying desperately to study for three final exams while also making himself presentable for an interview for a summer internship.

He has been studying cases for the interview and texts for his finals all afternoon, and he is absolutely falling apart.

And read week, Enjolras thinks, tilting his head to the side, is probably not the best time to be making decisions of this kind.

Grantaire, reeking of weed and paint, leans forward, frowning a little. It twists his forehead oddly, gives him a wrinkle that adds a modicum of thoughtful charm to his otherwise focused face. Something in Enjolras's belly stirs. This is the wrong time for a study break.

“So what do you think?” Grantaire says. His voice is hoarse—from the weed, perhaps, or from not sleeping, or from shouting during boxing or doing one of the million other things Grantaire is always doing. He is smiling. There is a smear of black along his jaw, half-disappearing into the stubble there. It's a look that works for him. “Are you in?”

“That's a terrible idea,” Courfeyrac says.

His voice sounds terribly distant, like it's coming from the inside of Enjolras's skull or perhaps from very far away.

“Don't do it, Enjolras.”

“He's right,” Combeferre says. Enjolras's heart thunders in his chest. Is it the Red Bull he shotgunned an hour ago, or is it--

“Three ore for two sheep? Enjolras, he's going to _win_ if you keep making stupid moves like that--”

“Fine,” Enjolras says. “I'll trade.”

In the end, perhaps it is not surprising that Enjolras loses terribly.

Grantaire, after cackling wildly and claiming the Largest Army card, builds no cities and comes in third.

Combeferre puts up an admirable fight, but in the end it is no surprise to anyone that Courfeyrac dominates, sealing up Longest Road in the same move as he builds a last city.

“And that, assholes,” Courfeyrac says, swooping up three victory points, “is how you settle Catan!”

“Good study break, team,” Combeferre says. “And you said game night was a terrible idea--”

“I'm full of good advice,” Grantaire says cheerfully, and Enjolras wonders when exactly this became his life.

 

 

 

 

**september, or: _meet cute_**

It's the first really un-fun weekend of the fall semester, and Grantaire is lying on his floor drinking. The dusty blue-grey carpet irritates his nose. His music is perhaps ten percent too loud.

School comes at you slowly, and then all at once. Grantaire made it through the first three weeks totally fine, caught up with all his readings and on track to finish all his projects, but now?

Well, now he's got two papers to write and a project proposal to finish by Monday, and god, he loves it here, wouldn't change it for the world, but sometimes it's just too _much_.

He stretches on the floor like a cat, wishing that Joly weren't premed and were therefore often unable to do anything if it means blowing off work. It's easy to paint drunk, Grantaire supposes, but maybe a little harder to do molecular biology p-sets or whatever it is that Joly does drunk. He's gotten off easy.

Even Bossuet has been more serious about his studies lately, has been staying up in the library after Grantaire leaves and showing up to practice before Grantaire does. Grantaire wonders if he sleeps, or when he sleeps, or if he even needs sleep. He wonders that a lot about a lot of people.

It's like this here, though: most weekends are all right for most people—a lot of work, yeah, but nothing they can't handle. But then some weekends, everything piles up on everyone at once, and every table at every library is filled up by ten a.m. and the only people who go out are the members of secret societies, the ones who can literally afford to waste their time here while everyone else frantically guzzles Red Bull-adderall cocktails at the library to stay up a third straight day.

At least for Grantaire, the hallucinations triggered by lack of sleep help him paint better. He's not sure what they do for the other overachievers, but alums have made and discovered cool enough shit that he thinks it must be a good thing. Maybe you can think up better insane-but-plausible theories about dark matter when you've taken so many uppers that you need a heroin injection just to fall asleep.

He cranks his music up louder and keeps dribbling his cheap whiskey into his mouth. John Darnielle's voice crescendos into a wail. Grantaire wonders if he's a cliché and then wonders if it's cliché to wonder if you're a cliché while lying on your dorm room floor drinking cheap whiskey and blasting the Mountain Goats out of your Macbook. He thinks that if he could reach his phone, he'd tweet that, and then thinks that maybe it's better suited to Tumblr.

The carpet hasn't been vacuumed in years, from what Grantaire can tell. He sneezes, spraying snot and whiskey all over himself.

Someone knocks on the door. He might be imagining it under the steady warble of his music, but then the person knocks again, more insistently this time.

Figuring it's Bossuet blowing off one of the many poli sci papers he has due this week, or maybe Eponine to try and kick him into gear, Grantaire stands up, a little unsteadily. He grabs a towel from his dresser and wipes himself off as quickly as possible before stumbling over to the door, still holding the bottle.

“Honestly, L'aigle, thank fuck you're here, because--”

He stops. The person in front of him is not Bossuet. It's someone else, or rather, some _thing_ else, because this creature cannot possibly be human—or, okay, it looks human, but superhuman or extrahuman, more Michelangelo's David than Bernini's. Grantaire likes pretty things—the visual arts-art history double major sort of insists on that—but this is beyond pretty. Whatever it is, it's mind-blowing, and Grantaire meets its eyes, blinks twice, and looks beyond it at the door opposite his.

“I'm sorry?” the thing says, and Grantaire looks back.

It blinks at him, wide dark blue eyes deep set over a straight nose and cheekbones that Grantaire thinks he could bruise himself against. He goes through mythical creatures this thing could possibly be in his head—it is almost druid-esque, possibly a centaur that has taken on human legs. Or he is god made human. Perhaps he is Bernini after all, more his Apollo than Michelangelo's. Grantaire almost thinks he can see the godliness glowing off of him, a gold aura so radiant it's almost ugly. He swallows.

“Uh,” the thing says again, probably unnerved by Grantaire's enduring stare.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. His voice is hoarse. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Well,” the thing—which is not a thing, Grantaire assures himself, it must surely be a student, because centaurs-made-human aren't real, and anyway if they were surely they would be more equine and not merely perfection in human form and if this thing were a god then that would really disrupt his entire worldview so perhaps he should just assume Occam's razor to be true—says. “I'm not. I'm just me.”

“Who's me, exactly?” Grantaire tries to relax, forces his stance into something normal. He slumps against the doorframe as if that'll help.

“Enjolras,” the thing—he—says. “I just wanted to let you know that it's quiet hours.”

“Are you an RA?” Grantaire asks. He crosses his arms.

“No,” Enjolras says. “I'm just trying to study--”

Grantaire glances over Enjolras's outfit: well-made cable-knit sweater in an absurd shade of red, joggers with that ridiculous red heart on them—designer, the kind that makes t-shirts and sweatpants that cost hundreds of dollars and calls itself normcore or urban or whatever—sneakers worth more than Grantaire's entire wardrobe, probably.

“I'm sure you don't need to,” Grantaire says.

“You're basing that off my clothes?” Enjolras frowns. “What if I'd been wearing a faded hoodie and tight jeans? Would you assume that I'm an annoying hipster who doesn't care about respecting other people's space?”

“Politicians' kids get off easy,” Grantaire says, ignoring the slight. “CEOs' kids don't have to get a 4.0 to get a starting salary of 150k. Celebrities' kids can write memoirs about their experiences in rehab.”

Enjolras's perfect nostrils flare. “Look, I just want to ask you to please turn your music down—I don't know how you can possibly be partying now when midterms are in a few weeks--”

“I'm not having a party,” Grantaire says, opening his door wider. “It's just me.”

“You're drinking alone and blasting shitty sad music?”

His eyes widen. Round. Long lashes that are dark despite the blond of his hair. They drop to the bottle in Grantaire's hand. Grantaire's throat feels tight.

“The Mountain Goats aren't shitty,” he says indignantly. “You just don't appreciate--”

“I'm not here for a lecture on the merits of indie rock,” Enjolras says, tone softening as he uncrosses his arms. “Are you—I mean, is everything--”

The question hangs in the air between them, unfinished and unanswered. Grantaire sighs. “Look, I'm sorry—I'll turn the music down, okay?”

“That's all I wanted,” Enjolras says, though he hovers just past the doorway, looking over Grantaire's shoulder.

“Can I help you with something else?”

Enjolras's eyes snap back onto Grantaire's. “No,” he says, and turns abruptly.

Grantaire closes the door and sinks down against it, staring at the bed positioned on the opposite wall. Joly once told him it was the exact opposite of feng shui to have his bed so near the door, but none of the other walls are long enough for it, and anyway Joly was only into feng shui for like two hours one weekend their freshman year. Grantaire takes a sip of his whiskey, then chugs it more deeply, letting it burn the inside of his mouth until it stings his eyes.

As first meetings go, Grantaire thinks, that one was positively disastrous.

*

It is Monday, and the sun is not shining.

The thing Grantaire always forgets about fall in New York is that the mornings are pretty fucking bleak. People love to wax poetic about trees and leaves and all that, but all the trees in New York are implants, and all the leaves are cleared as soon as they fall, and the sun is almost always hidden by a thick layer of fog.

He peers out of his window, up much too early the way he always is lately. Most of the city is obscured, even the buildings on campus. The fog seems to flood into his room instead of light, casting everything into oddly mystical shadow.

He needs to get up. He has practice in fifteen minutes, breakfast with the team after that, a full day of classes, dance. He still feels strung out from the weekend, like the hours of poring over his drawing proposal and drinking himself into the floor have taken a physical toll on his body instead of just a mental one. He just wants to turn over and go back to sleep, to pretend he doesn't have any obligations. He feels like that a lot lately, especially since Paris and his awful summer there.

Grantaire yawns, rolls over, bangs the snooze button on his alarm. Monday, he thinks, can wait.

*

His Drawing IV professor fucking hates him, Grantaire is pretty sure.

All they're doing right now are warm-up sketches of the student leaning forward in the center of the classroom, his clothes draping around him in what the professor seems to think are interesting ways. The shadows he's shading don't look _quite_ right, Grantaire knows, but the guy next to him just has this weird form that's more blob than boy, and the professor isn't giving _him_ any shit. He presses his charcoal against his sketchpad, temporarily indulging in the uncomfortable grind of tooth against tooth.

“You aren't focused, Grantaire,” the professor says. “Focus on the way the light hits the places where it isn't. That's our goal here. _Focus_.”

“That doesn't even make any fucking sense,” Grantaire mumbles once the professor is out of earshot, turning to a clean sheet of paper.

Sometimes he hates art. Or, okay, he never hates art, but sometimes he hates that he gets stressed out making art. It's not supposed to be like this. It's supposed to be—not _easy_ , exactly, but relaxing, at least. A release.

His summer program, eight weeks in Paris paid for by two fellowships and a grant, went so poorly that Grantaire almost gave it all up then. He was sure he could get a job at a museum with just his degree in art history. The only reason he's still here, taking these stupid classes, is that he couldn't get into any other art history classes this semester, and anyway he's so far along at this point that he might as well finish it.

His final project in the program was one of the most derivative, useless things he's ever done: a painting of the Paris skyline that took half a day instead of the weeks all his other shitty pieces took. His instructor loved it, called it his masterpiece, and Grantaire thought that if that was the best he was ever going to do and it wasn't even that good, then what was the point? People don't get more than one masterpiece. Some people do, like DaVinci, but even that's arguable. And _he_ , Grantaire thinks, pressing his charcoal so hard against the paper that it grinds down a little, is no DaVinci.

But he's working on his portfolio now, he reminds himself, as his drawings start to get more intricate than warm-up sketches. He needs to get a job somewhere, maybe making concept art or something. His graphic design is okay, but it's not good enough for a job, he doesn't think, not yet. So this is all he has for now, all he has for when he's applying to internships at design firms and newspapers and magazines before he takes Web & Graphic Design next semester.

He darkens the shadow inside the guy's sleeve, and when the instructor comes around again, he makes no comment. Grantaire doesn't look at him or try to interpret the fact that he walks past Grantaire's drawing with barely a second glance. Grantaire just keeps drawing.

*

Sometimes, Grantaire thinks about what his life would be like if he were a famous artist. He pictures himself wearing a black turtleneck and something ridiculous on the bottom, like a black and gold kilt with lace tights and chelsea boots, and he pictures himself brooding in corners while people look at his art and moon over how bits of it must represent some form of inner repressed gay turmoil when really the reason the towers in his paintings look phallic is that he'd really wanted a hot dog that day. He pictures himself, R the famous sculptor-slash-painter-slash-photoshopper-slash-charcoal-master, wearing a very expensive watch that he breaks all the time and possibly a beret and having hair even longer and more unkempt than it is now. He'd play weird psychedelic music, he thinks, like Squidward on that one episode of SpongeBob SquarePants, or maybe he'd just play warbling indie rock to really set the mood. This piece was painted to Sufjan Stevens' album about jerking off, one plaque would say. This sculpture represents the workings of Kevin Devine. Maybe he could shake things up, throw some Lykke Li in there. That'd be a depressing piece, probably, or an ironically happy one.

He's pretty sure now that this is a far-off fantasy, something that came true for another Grantaire in another lifetime in another universe. This Grantaire is going into corporate graphic design. This Grantaire spent too long trying to write a proposal for his drawing class final project.

This Grantaire tries to catch his professor's eye as he drops the folder containing the project proposal on his desk. The professor doesn't look up from his iPad, which displays one of the exhibits at MoMA that they're supposed to get down to this weekend for homework.

It took him hours to decide what he wants to draw this semester, longer than it took to write either of his papers and work out and practice dance combined. He wasn't sure how close to realism he wanted to make it, and he's still not sure he got it right, but now, exhausted, he deposits the proposal and makes to leave.

“Grantaire,” the professor says, and Grantaire's heart skips a beat.

“Yeah?”

“You left your charcoals out.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, going back to his station and tucking them away. “Thanks.”

He pulls his hair out of its customary art-making bun and leaves.

*

“I know, I know,” Bossuet says, nearly cutting a finger off in the process of peeling an onion. “But it's brilliant, okay, everyone in the group is really sweet and--”

“Does this have something to do with that girl you're both into?” Grantaire asks, washing the charcoal off his hands as best he can.

“You'd really like them,” Joly continues, ignoring Grantaire and prying the knife gently out of Bossuet's hand so he can peel the onion himself. “I know you're down on protests and you think social justice is bullshit and BDS is a waste of time, but--”

“I don't think BDS is a waste of time, I just think it's ineffective,” Grantaire says. “A pipe dream, if you will.”

“I won't,” Bossuet says.

Grantaire ignores him. “And I believe in social justice—I mean, generally, because I have to, right? I'm not, like, a straight white dude. But it just seems not particularly feasible that we can do anything about it ourselves.”

“Just _come_ ,” Bossuet says. “You'll like it. And you _did_ say you need something to do other than, and I quote, 'drink myself into lonely oblivion nightly, for as the stars rise I shall fall, Joly, and--'”

“God, stop,” Grantaire says, adding salt and then pasta to their pot of boiling water. “I'll come, okay? But only if there's food.”

“It's not my fault you become a poet after your sixth drink,” Bossuet says.

“They have pizza every meeting,” Joly says cheerfully.

“Also, Eponine goes,” Bossuet says, which is news to Grantaire.

“It's Tuesday night, okay?” Joly says. “You'll come?”

Grantaire sighs. “Yeah, whatever.”

*

They're in New York City, so it really, really doesn't make sense to Grantaire that the pizza they're eating is Papa John's.

“I mean, honestly,” he whispers to Bossuet. “We're in the _pizza capital of the world_ , don't we deserve _at least_ something with a thinner crust--”

“You're being very loud and very rude,” Jehan says from beside him.

Jehan was a surprise: they've been in a lot of the same classes, though since Jehan is creative writing-fine arts with a classics concentration he ends up spending a lot of his time quoting poetry at Grantaire instead of having actual conversation. Not that Grantaire's complaining.

“The meeting's about to start,” Jehan says. “We're just waiting for the president--”

“This doesn't really seem like your scene,” Grantaire says. “Isn't it a little too political for you? Where's the art?”

“Oh, but there's always art in politics,” Jehan says. “Or politics in art—after all, 'art reflects the unanalyzed politics of our lives' and all that.”

“Carl Andre's a minimalist,” Grantaire says.

“Nobody's perfect,” Jehan says. “But I gotta work it--”

“I'll tell you what isn't perfect,” Grantaire mutters, chewing laboriously on a bite of pizza. “The plastic Papa John's passes off as cheese.”

“At least it's free,” Jehan says. “As are all the best things in life.”

“If this is one of the best things in life, then what's the point?”

Jehan laughs. “Maybe there isn't one. Maybe life is round and pointless, but a round thing is a robust thing, is it not?”

“Who are you quoting now?”

“Jean Prouvaire,” Jehan says. “Esquire.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. Beside him, Marius—which explains Eponine's being here, at least—looks confused.

“Is that your dad?” Marius asks.

Jehan only raises an eyebrow enigmatically in response.

“Hi, everyone.”

Grantaire turns abruptly to where the president has taken his place up near the front of the seminar room they're having the meeting in. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised—this is exactly the kind of thing the universe would wish upon him. The statue from the other night is scanning the room calculatingly, and his gaze falls disapprovingly upon Grantaire.

Grantaire is frozen to his seat, one part surprised at the serendipity and two parts awed once more at the _beauty_ of Enjolras.

“Let's get started,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has to stop himself from blushing crimson until Enjolras looks away. It is an act of willpower so strong, so effective, that it makes Grantaire wonder why he can't completely give up smoking. “So—it's a new semester, and there are new members. Introductions?”

One of the two students standing behind Enjolras raises an eyebrow. Grantaire tears his eyes away from them and looks down at his flyer. _ABC_ , it advertises. _For all your social justice needs! And we have pizza :-)_

There's an actual emoticon there. Not even an emoji, just a little colon dash close parenthesis. It's printed on plain white paper, and in hindsight, Grantaire isn't surprised that there aren't many people here despite the promise of free pizza.

“I'll start,” says Enjolras. “I'm Enjolras, third-year, human rights and poli sci double major with a philosophy concentration.” He pauses, smiles wanly as people actually literally hoot and holler at this. “I'm primarily interested in the relationship between duty and morality as they apply to humanitarian intervention.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. _Of course you are_ , he thinks. He can picture Enjolras leading an army into battle, but imagines he'd be a bad general. He could convince everyone to fight, sure, but then his strategy for defeating the opposing army would probably be something like “throw Daddy's money at it” or “argue at it.”

That's not fair, Grantaire supposes, still watching Enjolras. He doesn't know that Enjolras's dad is rich. It's possible his mom is the rich one. Maybe they are both independently wealthy. Maybe Enjolras wrote an app his freshman year that made him three billion dollars. Maybe Enjolras is just a master thrifter, spending his days combing through East Village consignment shops and his nights slaving away at some retail job or library work study.

“I'm Combeferre,” one of the two standing behind Enjolras says. “Vice-president. Also third-year. Poli sci and pre-med.”

 _Poli sci and pre-med_ , Christ, what's the _point_? If you're going to be a politician, do you need to know how to cut people open? And vice versa?

“I'm interested in the _hows_ of the ABC, in our day-to-day operations and how to implement the changes we'd like to see.”

“I'm Courfeyrac,” the one with the raised eyebrow says. “Secretary. Third-year as well. Econ-poli sci.”

Finally, Grantaire thinks, someone who makes sense. Economics and political science at least seem to be two sides of the same coin, or perhaps both the same side of a two-headed coin. Grantaire's not sure: he's an artist, not a statistician.

“Some quick background,” Courfeyrac continues. “The three of us all met the first lecture of freshman year when we all agreed that the professor was an imperialist and dominated Intro to American Politics like Christian Grey.”

“Who, we should emphasize, is _not_ a good example of someone living the BDSM lifestyle,” a pretty girl with dark hair says. “And possibly not the best of references to use. It possibly, maybe, _might_ perpetuate the same rape culture we're trying to break down.”

“Thanks, Musichetta,” Courfeyrac says. He looks a little sheepish. “You're right, of course—we dominated it safely, sanely, and consensually.” He looks to Musichetta for approval, and she nods. “So we thought that the one thing this school really lacked was a general interest social justice group. There are organizations that cater to students of color, lower income students, LGBTQA students, et cetera—but we're the one-size fits-all for your social justicing needs.” He grins at the few who chuckle at this, and Grantaire wonders how much of this is a self-aware joke.

The other guy, the one who isn't Courfeywhatever or Enjolras, clears his throat. “Now, as we know, everyone in the ABC gets an equal voice—that is, as much of a voice as they'd like. To do that comfortably, we should all get to know each other—so Musichetta, if you'd like to continue with our introductions...”

They move on to Musichetta, who is a nontraditional student studying computer engineering, and then Feuilly, who's also nontraditional (“And it shows, he looks fucking ancient,” Grantaire whispers to Bossuet, who shushes Grantaire with a slice of pizza shoved into his mouth; Grantaire winces at the Papa Johnian cardboard but is still grateful he won't have to blow some of his hard-earned work study money on dinner tonight). Then there's Joly who's biochem on the pre-med track, and then Bossuet who's poli sci hoping to eventually go to law school (“Because _someone_ needs to help people who don't speak English figure out how to stay in this country,” he says, to a raucous round of applause), and of course Grantaire who says that he's into art but only because he thinks everything else is boring and hard, and that he got bored with Photoshop one day and decided to try painting. Jehan's introduction involves his standard Aristotle quote (“When people are friends, they have no need of justice, but when they are just they need friendship in addition,” he says, and, “Is that from _Ethics_?” the secretary asks. “You know we all read that sophomore year, right?”). That leaves Marius, who is a linguistics major and was clearly dragged here by the secretary, and of course Eponine who sits perched on the edge of her seat next to Marius, gazing at him and only reluctantly revealing that she's applied math, and then half a dozen others, many of them poli sci, a couple of them engineers, all of them seemingly pretty nice.

“We'll move on now to a brief outline of our plans for the semester,” the secretary says. “Enjolras, if you will ...”

“Right,” Enjolras says. “So we have three major events planned for the next twelve weeks: most importantly, we're putting on our own rally! I've talked to some other social justice groups on campus, and they're all interested in taking part so long as we stay relatively safe throughout the semester--”

“Boring,” one of the engineers—something with a B--calls out.

“Yes, well,” Enjolras says, and smiles.

That's mind-blowing, too. Grantaire has to look away, because Enjolras's smile is literally flooring. He can't look at it for too long or risk getting dazzled into stupification. Holy shit.

“We're also participating in the Black Students Organization's students of color rally, and then we're hosting a Thanksgiving food drive-slash-fundraiser along with Student-Worker Solidarity--”

“Wait, you're participating in the students of color rally?” Grantaire interrupts.

“Well, yes,” Enjolras says, frowning. “Those of us who are only allies will be there to express our solidarity--”

“Solidarity isn't the same thing as appropriation, though,” Grantaire says. “You're trying to co-opt it, right? That's why you called it one of the ABC's events. But--”

“We will be there to express our solidarity,” Enjolras repeats, as if Grantaire never interrupted him, “by providing either protection from public safety, because white bodies are generally safe at these sorts of things, or by distributing fliers—generally providing muscle work--”

“Fliers,” Grantaire repeats, deadpan. “Wow, if only Mandela had known—the secret to changing the world, a mere sheet of paper--”

“ _Information_ is the secret to changing the world,” Enjolras says. “Mandela knew that. Just because ours is printed on white copy paper--”

“--We should work on those--” the secretary whispers.

“--doesn't make it any less valid a form of information.”

“I didn't say it did,” Grantaire says. “Only that it seems laughably simple, doesn't it? Like, if that was going to work, why hasn't anyone thought of it yet?”

“If we said that about every idea, no one would ever innovate.”

“Well, yeah, but it's not relevant to every idea,” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes. “Only the stupid ones.”

“Well, let us know when you come up with the magical solution to institutionalized racism,” Enjolras says, his voice very even. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

He moves on to something else, then, probably because the vice president has put his hand on Enjolras's shoulder in what seems to be a calming fashion. So much for hearing all voices, then.

The meeting goes on, but Grantaire can't focus, can only alternate between gazing at Enjolras and doodling on the flier the secretary passed around. He's trying his hardest to draw anything other than this blond menace, so his page ends up covered in drawings that might be a giraffe and might be Jehan. His Drawing III professor would love them, but, he thinks, his Drawing IV professor would hate them.

Someone asks for a vegan alternative to the pizza. There goes Grantaire's one reason for ever coming back to this student group. He gives his giraffe a mustache, fills in the hairs carefully. The shape is ridiculous, the kind of thing some annoying hipster in Brooklyn would try to mold his mustache into and fail. Joly looks over and bursts into laughter, earning him a very dirty look from Enjolras.

“On that note,” Enjolras says, “I think that's about enough for our first meeting of the semester. I'll leave you all to your problem sets--”

“And your readings,” the vice-president says.

“And your writings,” the secretary says.

It sounds like they've rehearsed it. Grantaire has to expend an unbelievable amount of energy to keep his eyes from rolling.

“Thanks for coming,” the secretary says. “We'll see you all next week—remember, there's a joint meeting with the BSO and other social justice groups next Monday night. New members, stick around—we need your email addresses so we can bill you for our services.” He winks, and Grantaire grins: this person, at least, he can get behind.

“By bills, Courfeyrac means member dues,” the vice-president says. “It's a one-time fee of twenty dollars, totally optional but really quite necessary for things like renting out space and paying for the pizza you've all—except for Jehan, sorry about that--enjoyed so thoroughly.”

“It was Papa John's,” the tall one with the dreads and half a degree in financial engineering—the B-guy who isn't Bossuet--says. “Come on, Combeferre--”

“And we'll all be getting a post-meeting drink at the Musain before their happy hour ends,” the secretary continues, as if neither his vice-president nor the financial engineer have interrupted him.

That, Grantaire thinks, is what he likes to hear.

*

Surprisingly, Grantaire has only been to the Musain twice. It's a couple of blocks past the more popular bars near campus, and it closes early enough that it can't even be the bar he ends an evening at. He came here once freshman year after hearing that they were lax about carding, and then a second time last semester for happy hour with Eponine, who he's pretty sure just wanted to spy on Marius, which is exactly what she's doing right now.

When the bartender serves Grantaire his first drink, though, he thinks that he's maybe made a mistake. The bartender pours him an extremely stiff whiskey sour, only charges him five dollars for it—a bargain—and winks when Grantaire tips well.

“Musichetta is a partial owner here,” Joly informs Grantaire when he returns with his round of drinks. “The Musain gets a huge discount.”

“It's actually where we met her,” Bossuet says. “We were here over the summer, and she mentioned that we might be into the ABC—and now here we are.”

“You spent your summer in New York City still showing up to bars _here_?” Grantaire says. “Honestly, this city is wasted on you.”

Joly shrugs, but Bossuet shakes his head vigorously. “We partied everywhere,” he insists. “East Village, Chelsea, Hell's Kitchen--”

“We came to the Musain for dinner one night because we lived on campus and we felt lazy,” Bossuet says. “Then we kept coming back because of Musichetta.”

“How are you both into her?” Grantaire says, but is spared an explanation by the rest of the ABC settling around their table.

Eponine slips into the seat next to Grantaire's, but she's focused primarily on Marius, who has sat directly across from her and is talking animatedly to the social director or whatever he said he was. Grantaire is about to say something to Eponine, maybe something snarky and dickish and generally not very nice to these people who gave him free pizza, but instead he's distracted by the man sitting across from him.

“Hi,” he says. Grantaire has already forgotten his name, but he's pretty sure he's one of the guys whose name starts with a C. Curly-que or something. Crustacean. Crimson?

“Hi,” Grantaire says.

“You said you were visual arts, correct?”

“Uh—yeah.”

“So what exactly does that entail? Just, like, painting?”

“Well—you can pretty much do whatever,” Grantaire says. “It's art, you know, so it's not super intellectual or structured or whatever--”

“I think art is very intellectual,” the C-guy says. It's the one with glasses. His hand is curled around a glass of something clear, and Grantaire half-wonders if it's water.

“It depends on how you define intellectual,” Grantaire says. “It doesn't consist of a lot of thought or reading, but I guess if your thing is art interpretation, it becomes intellectual. That's something I actually study, like, the intellectualization of something that doesn't inherently have to contain intellect.”

“Ah,” C-guy says. He smiles. He has very straight, very white teeth, like everyone else in this stupid club. “So your major is painting and then arguing that what you paint is stupid.”

Grantaire laughs despite himself. “Sort of. We have to take other classes, too, drawing and sculpture and things like that. I actually love sculpture, I made a bust of Apollo last semester and it looked almost exactly like our dear leader.” He indicates Enjolras, sitting diagonally across from him, and when Enjolras meets his eye, Grantaire raises his drink in salutation.

“Don't let him hear you say that,” Chamomile says. His grin gets bigger. He's good looking, too, and Grantaire wonders how he ended up in a club that seems like a literal who's-who of their school's hottest non-sexist socialists.

“It's not really my thing, though.”

“Greek mythology?”

“No, I do love a good accidental-incest story,” Grantaire says. “I meant sculpture. It's not fast enough.”

“So you like to de-intellectualize and expedite art,” Chromium says. “Are you sure you're not into graphic design?”

That startles another laugh out of Grantaire. “Have you been reading up on the dramas of the art world?”

Clotpole smiles mysteriously. “I do like to read.”

“Then our esteemed institution must be exactly the right place for you.”

Crème Brulee shrugs. “I suppose. There are _some_ issues, of course—you'll notice that our hierarchical club structure seems antithetical to the message of pure equality that we propose.”

“Not to mention the fact that there's like one white dude in the club and he happens to be the president,” Grantaire says.

“That's the point,” Enjolras says. Grantaire didn't know he'd been listening. “We figured out a few weeks in that anarchies don't really work.”

“Everyone in the club is a hard worker, but everyone in the club is also extremely busy,” Coriolanus explains. “We needed someone to organize things and sign up volunteers and enforce our few rules.”

“We had a vote,” the other one with a C-name says, “and they voted for me, Combeferre, and Enjolras as a sort of triumvirate.”

“But then when we wanted to get recognized by the school, we had to list our president, vice-president, treasurer, secretary, et cetera,” Comfybear says. “And it just—we knew that we'd be doing some controversial stuff, and we'd be looked at as less dangerous overall if the face of the movement was a white male.”

“Don't you _want_ to seem dangerous?”

“Not to the administration,” Enjolras says. He sounds almost apologetic. “We needed funding, we needed to be able to book space—all of that requires us to have a set hierarchy of officers in place. It just made sense. You know the surveillance on Arab and Black student groups is significantly higher than the surveillance on other student groups here, like the Queer Alliance or any of the other political or social justice groups?” He runs a hand through his hair, his voice taking on that same angry tone from the meeting. “We needed to get the administration to at least think that we were harmless. Otherwise we'd never get anything done.”

“Aren't you, though?” Grantaire asks. “Harmless, I mean--”

“No!” Enjolras says, and the sentiment is echoed across the table, though Grantaire pays little attention to the rest of them. “Last semester, we effectively released documentation revealing the extent of the administration's investment in various racist organizations _and_ got them to divest from several of them without detection from said administration. They have no idea it was us. They still think we're harmless, but we got campus publications to leak those documents—that's not something a harmless group does!”

“Not bad,” Grantaire says. “But won't your rallies publicize you as a harmful group?”

“We've already been approved,” Enjolras says. “We have funding, we can book space—as long as our rally goes off totally by-the-books and doesn't involve much violence, we'll be okay. It's hard to have yourself removed as a student group, but--”

“But I'm sure you'll try,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras smiles. It's small, barely-there, lasts for less than a second, but it happens and Grantaire feels his pulse quicken. He thinks it must be audible, that Eponine and Bossuet must be able to hear the way his blood is thundering through his body. This is absurd. Enjolras is hot, but this is an insane reaction to have to someone who is merely hot. This is ridiculous. He's not even cool. He's a giant asshole social justice nerd. Grantaire coughs. It does not help.

“Hey, R, tell Marius about that time you were in the East Village and ran into Taylor Swift,” Joly cuts in.

By the time Grantaire turns back, Enjolras is already deeply intwined in a conversation with Cumberbatch. It's probably about war or equality or capitalism or something. Enjolras glances briefly at Grantaire, something like disgust coloring his nevertheless perfect face, before turning back to Campaign Finance.

“Yes, it's possible Walzer's justifications _do_ apply there,” Enjolras says, his attention now wholly on Chlamydia.

Despite himself, Grantaire feels a little jealous.

*

He gets to dance practice late and half-tipsy.

The captain, Cosette, glares at him over her glasses, which she hasn't switched for contacts yet and which Grantaire is pretty sure means they haven't totally started yet. Eponine is already there and changed, somehow, even though he's pretty sure they left the Musain at roughly the same time.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says.

Eponine looks at him, frowning. “What are you talking about? You left before me.”

Grantaire is mystified. “No way, dude.”

“Maybe you got distracted flirting with Enjolras.”

“We weren't _flirting_ ,” Grantaire says. “We were arguing. Because he's an idealistic asshole.”

“And you're just an asshole?”

“Get started on the stretching, guys, come on,” Cosette says, a little impatiently.

Stretching feels good, though, like breathing again. He never realizes how tense he is all day until dance practice in the evenings. He's always thought it's a good way to end his nights, dance practice, the same way boxing is a good way to start his mornings.

He bends backwards as far as he can, reaching for Eponine, who grabs his hands and pulls until his back feels limber, flexible.

Cosette starts going over the choreography she wants Grantaire and Eponine to work on, and Eponine is paying attention which means that Grantaire can zone out, get used to the feeling of his body in motion. It's a feeling he forgets about when he's squeezed into a chair in class, or cramped into a booth at a bar, or contorted into something not-quite comfortable on his bed, or tensed up ready for a fight. _Motion_.

“Let's get going,” Cosette calls out to everyone, and they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Jehan's references, in order: [Carl Andre](http://www.theartstory.org/artist-andre-carl.htm), [Hannah Montana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t93u0qg5q_M), [Janet Jackson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaNNdQVQB9k) ([probably](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HD5tyat_L68)), Jean Prouvaire (esquire), [Aristotle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicomachean_Ethics). It's possible I will start footnoting.  
>  
> 
> Updates will be every other Friday for now.


	2. october, part one; or: selling out

Halfway through his sprint from his residence hall to the gym, Grantaire thinks that it's possible he should've woken up earlier.

He's been late for practice a total of four times in the month since the semester started. Coach told him to decide—“Grantaire, do you want to be here or don't you?”—and now Grantaire is royally, royally fucking that up.

He runs faster. He thinks that maybe it defeats the purpose of practice to tire himself out _before_ he's gotten there, and cardio's not _really_ his thing. They do suicide sprints to warm up, yeah, but he's always out of breath by the end—he's in it for the boxing, for the workout, for the thrill of competing to win. He's not in it for this.

Coach is still in his office when Grantaire gets there, and the rest of the team is still in sneakers, which Grantaire takes as a good sign. He dumps his bag in the pile with everyone else's and catches up with Bossuet mid-stride.

“You're, like, super late, dude,” Bossuet says.

“Nah, dude, you're still warming up.”

“Did you forget yoga?”

“What?”

“Coach said it last week. We're starting to do yoga. More flexibility, he says, less muscle tension.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says. “I had a nightmare, dude, barely slept.”

“What about?”

“I don't remember,” Grantaire lies. “Did he notice I was--”

“It's cool, I think a bunch of people forgot,” Bossuet says. “Apparently the captain forgot to send out a reminder email. _Again_.”

“Shit,” Grantaire says.

Davy, the captain, has been in constant trouble with Coach all semester. There's no telling how bad it could get once the season actually starts.

“Davy thinks he's going to be demoted,” Bossuet says. “Leaving the position wide open for--”

“That's great, man,” Grantaire says, genuinely meaning it. “Seriously, like--”

“ _No_ , stupid, I meant you. Coach can barely tolerate me.”

“He almost kicked me off the team last week,” Grantaire says.

“Co-captains, then,” Bossuet says, grinning.

Grantaire shrugs, not particularly eager to respond, and anyway the sprint from earlier is starting to catch up to him. He's a little out of breath as he reaches forward to touch the cone with his fingertips before whirling around to go again. Bossuet gives him major side-eye, and Grantaire completely ignores it.

*

He's still thinking about his dream while he eats lunch alone in his room, a half-assed salad that he shovels down with two scrambled eggs and untoasted bread. This is one of the days when he has no time for food or sleep, but he didn't have time to pack a lunch that morning and he's _starving_ , so he's back in his dorm, wasting valuable drawing or paper-writing or painting time eating.

Grantaire woke up early that morning, before the sun rose, feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. The dream was par for the course, a stress dream and nothing more, involved him breaking all his fingers so he couldn't box or draw or dance or even type. He stretches them now, curls them around the pen he's using to take notes on a reading while he eats.

It shouldn't feel so terrible, he thinks. It was just a dream, nothing real. He's had stress dreams before.

All he can think about is how it felt to wake up, how desperately he wanted to be in another body, covered in anyone else's skin. He'd sweated so hard his sheets were soaked, and for a second he'd thought he might have wet himself. It had taken him forever to fall back asleep, even with the help of a healthy swig of NyQuil and a shot of the shitty vodka Joly left in his room two weekends ago.

Grantaire shivers now, tries to focus on the reading for history of American photography class. It's something by Buchloh on Hans Haacke, and every black and white photograph of Haacke's art featured makes him feel more and more uncomfortable. He thinks that if he didn't have a painting due in a week and class in twenty minutes, he'd probably drug himself into oblivion and go back to sleep, but instead he has to sit here, half-curled in on himself, eating his slippery scrambled eggs and underlining random phrases in black ink.

*

At his second ABC meeting, Grantaire draws a doodle of Bossuet that takes up a full page of his sketchpad. Light gleams off his head, and it's possible that Grantaire has made him twice as shiny as he is in real life.

“I look like I'm made of wax,” Bossuet whispers.

“This is for when you become attorney general and they make a wax figure of you.”

“Do they do that for the attorney general?”

“The BSO students of color rally is coming up,” Enjolras is saying. “We'll be there to lend our support--”

“What is their rally supposed to accomplish, exactly?” Grantaire interrupts.

“Not again,” Bossuet says, quiet enough that only Grantaire can hear him.

“We've been talking about this all meeting,” Enjolras says. “It has high hopes for the restructuring of the system of white supremacy--”

“And we're going to accomplish that using two hundred privileged college kids shouting clever mottos?” Grantaire says. He hasn't thought this through, just kind of expelled verbal vomit, but Enjolras has only looked at him twice all meeting—not that he's counting—and Grantaire is sort of desperate for this. Besides, the more he talks, the more he's convinced he's right. “You know, like, half of them will graduate and go into finance and just reinforce the power structures they fought so hard to break down during college, right?”

“I think that's an unnecessarily pessimistic view of the post-college student body,” Enjolras says. “Yes, a lot of people go into finance—but a lot of people don't. A lot of people do TFA, or CityYear, or join the PeaceCorps--”

“Are you seriously defending the PeaceCorps right now?”

“Those people mean well,” Enjolras says. “Even if they don't take into account the imperialistic nature of the organization, they _mean well_. And people who mean well are people we can get on our side.” He turns away from Grantaire, just a fraction, just enough that they're not making eye contact anymore. “That's our goal for this semester. Get those people, the people who want to change the world—and help them do it. Not everyone reads Spivak, so not everyone knows how and when intervention becomes imperialistic. Not everyone reads Fanon, so not everyone gets how racism and the industrial prison complex have created a modern-day colonial system within our own country. It's up to us to convey that to them.”

He smiles, a stroke of triumph to it, and Grantaire slinks down in his seat. He draws in some of the shadow under Bossuet's left cheekbone. When he blinks, he realizes that Bossuet looks too unreal, carved out of glass. He darkens some of the skin with his pencil, but it still doesn't look right.

Enjolras is telling people to get back to their problem sets when Grantaire next looks up. The meeting is ending; his sketch looks absurd.

“Cool drawing,” the one Grantaire thinks of as “the other C-one” says, waiting until the room is mostly cleared out to walk over to where Grantaire is still packing up his stuff.

“It's really not,” Grantaire says, slinging his bag over his shoulder.. “I mean, it's not one of my best.”

“Sorry, I don't really know much about art,” Colby-sawyer says. “We've actually been looking for someone to lead our public outreach team, though, and Jehan says you're handy with Photoshop and a tablet. Do you think you could do our fliers?”

“Uh--” Grantaire says.

“I'll email you some stuff,” Comfy-rack says. “Are you coming to the Musain?”

“Some whiskey sounds really good right now,” Grantaire admits.

Crispy Creme—or, hang on, doesn't that start with a K?—grins at him. “I feel you, dude, it's been a rough week.”

“It's Tuesday.”

“Jesus, really?” Calabasas groans. “Listen, I know you're new and stuff, so I thought you might not hear it elsewhere—we're having a little ABC get-together in a couple of weeks in our suite. Wanna come? Just need to gauge interest for drinks-buying purposes.”

“You had me at drinks-buying purposes,” Grantaire says.

“That was the last thing I said,” Cranium says. “Marius and I have a lot of room, so feel free to bring friends who might be interested.”

“Awesome,” Grantaire says. “When is it?”

“It's the Friday after midterms end for most people. Two weeks from now.” Cryptonite—does that start with a C?—frowns. “You should really join our Facebook group. Then you'd hear about all this stuff from Mark, not me.”

“Who's Mark?”

“The inventor of Facebook?” Condom says. “You know—the _Social Network_ , totally screwed over Spider-man--”

“You're on first name basis with Mark Zuckerberg,” Grantaire says. “And you've got him delivering party deets in your Facebook group.”

“Something like that.” Catastrophe grins. “So you in, or--”

Grantaire is pretty sure he has a dance competition that night. He imagines showing up to this party after, sweaty and high off adrenaline and already tipsy. He imagines Enjolras, cheeks tinged red from alcohol instead of anger, and tries to hide the swooping sensation in his stomach. He wonders if Enjolras is a happy drunk or an angry one—he's always left the Musain too early to know. His gut clenches.

“I'll see you there,” he says.

C-dude smiles.

*

Grantaire is squeezed inside a booth between Musichetta and Eponine at the Musain that night, with Joly and Bossuet sitting merrily across from them, Bossuet looking significantly more human in real life than he does in Grantaire's awful, awful sketch.

“Tell me about yourself, Grantaire,” Musichetta says. “Joly and Bossuet are pretty much obsessed with you, so ...”

“They're obsessed with everyone they meet,” Grantaire says. “You should see how they reacted to Eponine.”

“I thought they were going to vomit out of sheer excitement,” Eponine confirms, but she isn't looking at them.

She's looking at the next booth, where Marius is sitting next to his C-dude roommate across from the other C-guy, Enjolras, and the tall one with dreads. Bahorel. Grantaire is pretty sure that's his name. Jehan is getting drinks, and Grantaire isn't sure if he's coming to their table or going to Enjolras's. He kind of wants to move himself, but what would he talk to them about? His entire understanding of political theory comes from a survey class and a lot of Sparknotes.

Musichetta seems to notice Eponine gazing at Marius, too, because she reaches over to brush Eponine's sleeve with her fingertips, says, “You and Grantaire are long-time friends?”

“We go way back,” Eponine confirms. “Our high schools were in neighboring towns, and when he wanted to apply to college his guidance counselor put him in touch with me.”

“Then we ended up in the same dance troupe,” Grantaire adds.

“You dance?” Musichetta says. “I knew you boxed, but--”

“A little,” Grantaire says. “Mostly I hold out my arms and Eponine jumps into them.”

“You're _partners_?” Musichetta says, grinning slyly.

“In all ways but that one, sadly,” Grantaire says. “Though I wouldn't say no--”

“Shut up, asshole,” Eponine says, but she laughs, which is good because fake flirting is the only way Grantaire can think of to get her distracted from the back of Marius's head other than buying her four shots. Which he shouldn't do, because they have practice in twenty minutes and Cosette would definitely be pissed if they showed up to practice visibly inebriated.

Musichetta is good at conversation, though. She's better than anyone Grantaire's met in the ABC so far, better than C-dude and C-guy and certainly better than Enjolras, who still just glares at him half the time.

Grantaire glances up now, and sure enough, Enjolras is looking at him. There's a deep groove between his brows, the kind Grantaire didn't think people under the age of forty tended to get. He's such an asshole that Grantaire wants to roll his eyes. Instead, Grantaire winks at Enjolras, who blinks as if he's just realized he's being watched, and turns back to the conversation at hand.

“We're all going out for drinks this weekend,” Musichetta says. “Joly, Bossuet, and me, I mean. You two should come along.”

Grantaire looks to Eponine, who smiles. He always forgets how lovely her smile is, how jarring it is to see her chapped lips curve around her perfect teeth. He forgets that she used to be rich or something.

“Let's go to practice,” Eponine says a little later, when they're both buzzed and definitely late.

Grantaire nods and follows her out of the bar.

*

Sometimes, Grantaire thinks the global cultures requirement is total bullshit. It's irritating to watch his classmates sign up for the easiest one, like reading all the western classics was so mentally trying that the concept of taking a challenging class that _also_ includes authors with funny names is just ludicrous. It's just so _annoying_ —he's surrounded by some of the smartest people on the planet, and they'll put years of their lives into discovering the next theoretical math concept or whatever, but they won't give a class on the possibility of non-western canons an hour or two a week.

But sometimes, like right now, in his class on African civilizations featuring actual _primary sources_ from real Africans and not just the people who colonized them, he's thrilled by the requirement. He's ashamed to admit it, but he never would have signed up for this class otherwise—and now here he is, learning about some shit his ancestors did. His professor can't stop mooning over ancient Egyptians, how they were one of the foundational empires of Africa, how sad she is when people cast them as white in films.

Next to him, Cosette is taking notes furiously. Grantaire knows Cosette outside of dance, sort of—she TA'd his freshman calc class, which he took purely because he'd already taken AP Calc in high school and just wanted to satisfy the quantitative requirement, and which he thinks might make him just as bad as the people who take really easy classes for Global Core. After that, she was in his dance troupe, which he's only allowed to participate in during the boxing off-season. They hooked up at a party once, decided being friends was better, and then after that started getting lunch together after their African Civ class.

It's possible he knows her more than sort of.

“Competition next weekend,” Cosette says, grinning at him after the professor dismisses the class. “So don't be late for practice again, dude, come on.”

“I was at a meeting the last couple of Tuesdays,” Grantaire says, not mentioning that the post-meeting drinks were what really made him late. “This, like, social justice club.”

“The ABC?” Cosette asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. Coach would probably kill him if he saw him smoke, but he was up early today, and anyway he limits himself to one every other day unless he's drunk. “How'd you know?”

Cosette doesn't meet his eye, and Grantaire gets the idea that if her skin was a shade or two lighter she'd be flushed a very bright red right now.

“Oh shit,” Grantaire says. “Are you into someone in the ABC?”

Cosette doesn't respond, exactly, but she does make this weird little sound like a strangled giggle.

“No, come on,” Grantaire says. “I need some gossip to get me through my four hour painting seminar, okay, just—is it Courfeybear?”

“Who?”

Grantaire frowns: it's possible he doesn't quite have a grasp on everyone's names yet. “Uh—it's a guy, right?” He's pretty sure Cosette has only dated guys before.

Cosette rolls her eyes. “Yes, dude, but you're never going to guess it--”

“The only people whose names I remember are people I already knew, so that's Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, and Marius.”

Cosette inhales sharply, and Grantaire laughs.

“You're barking up the wrong tree with Bossuet and Joly, I think, they've only got eyes for each other.” And Musichetta, who they keep ditching him to hang out with, Grantaire thinks. “And Jehan—well, Jehan loves everyone, but—oh, shit,” Grantaire says. “Oh, shit, it's Marius, isn't it?”

And that—that's worrying. He thinks about Eponine, gazing at Marius, two tables away. It's the only way Grantaire even knows who Marius is: Eponine has been Grantaire's dance partner since his freshman year, and she's been talking about Marius since he got here the next year.

“It's bad,” Cosette says. “I know, I just--”

“You know Eponine's, like--”

“You don't get to call dibs on people,” Cosette snaps, and then sighs.

They've about reached the art history library, and Grantaire follows Cosette in because he's got an hour til his next class and the cafe in the basement is surprisingly good.

“I know,” Grantaire says. “I know, but still. It'll be awkward.”

“Well, she's never really liked me, anyway,” Cosette says, which isn't true, and, “It's not like Marius has ever shown interest in her,” which is.

“Has he shown interest in _you_?”

“Like—sort of?” Cosette says.

She's got this adorable little smile on her face now, and as they get in line for sandwiches the smile only gets wider. “We just sort of—I mean, we were both in line at the package center, and we made eye contact, and it was just—I don't know how to explain it. It was kind of like being electrocuted? But like, in a good way.”

“Don't tell me you two looked at each other from across the room and fell deeply, madly in love,” Grantaire says. “What even—like, what?”

“I just told you, it was really weird,” Cosette says. “I don't know, I just really like him, I guess. We didn't even talk, like, he just added me on Facebook later and I saw that he was going to the ABC meeting.”

She groans out loud, a sound like a horse giving birth, but in a sweet way. Grantaire has to laugh.

“That's almost adorable,” he says. “How did he figure out your name if you didn't talk?”

“He was with Courfeyrac.”

Oh. Right. Not Comfybear or whatever. Actually, Grantaire thinks that might be the other one. He frowns. He's, like, ninety percent sure that he was a lot better with names before he started smoking weed with Joly and Bossuet twice a week.

“And you know Courfeyrac from ...”

“He was in your calc class freshman year,” Cosette says.

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Well, you can't blame me for not remembering, there were like a hundred people in that class.”

“He was in our recitation.”

In fairness, Grantaire hardly ever went to recitation. First semester freshman year, he'd still been trying to major in econ or something useful. He's pretty sure he scraped by Calc with a B purely because of his senior year of high school's push toward Ivy League. He can't remember what it was like to care so much about something so inconsequential, about a glorified worst-teams-in-the-division league. Those were the days.

They eat in half-silence, Cosette catching up on reading for her next class—her book is more symbols than words _or_ numbers, and how anyone can call that math is beyond Grantaire—while Grantaire himself Facebook-stalks members of the ABC. Courfeyrac is, like, uber-involved, it turns out—he's in the Shakespeare theater troupe _and_ the musical one, and he has pictures of himself protesting the occupation during Israeli Apartheid Week with Comfybear and Enjolras, pictures of himself dancing Bollywood, pictures of himself in student council. Yet another person, Grantaire supposes, who actually belongs here.

*

Grantaire makes a great show to himself of _not_ stalking Enjolras until he's in the back of his painting class, waiting for his teacher to come around and tell him he's abusing his oils. He is: the colors have gone murky from lack of concentration, but he sort of likes it.

Enjolras, as it turns out, doesn't ever smile in pictures. Or maybe he does, but he never makes those his profile pictures—his current one has him looking kind of intense, glaring at something off-camera like he wants to either save its life or destroy it. He's wearing a red coat, which is sort of ridiculous but which looks good on him. The first comment is from Courfeyrac, asks him who he's eye-fucking. The second is from Count Dracula, whose name turns out to actually be Combeferre.

 _you look like you could save the world_ , Combeferre says, and something in Grantaire's stomach twists.

“Grantaire, you're abusing your oils,” the professor says, startling him out of his reverie. Grantaire nearly drops his phone. “Be sure to switch or clean your brushes between colors, that's freshman stuff ...”

Grantaire shoves his phone back in his pocket, turns up the sound of his music, and continues painting the landscape outside. Murky colors, he thinks, work well for the ugly grey of the buildings in front of him. He draws in some of the leaves that have just started to fall, paints them in richer colors than they are. One of the trees has just turned brilliantly red. Grantaire adds blue with a clean brush.

When his professor walks by next, he nods approvingly, and Grantaire is more annoyed than pleased.

“You going to the studio after this?” Jehan asks, following Grantaire out as they pack up their things.

“Yeah, you?”

Jehan nods. “I hate painting alone, though—I need to compare my art to yours so I can convince myself that I'm the better artist.”

“Nothing so fortifies a friendship--” Grantaire says.

“--As the belief on the part of one friend that he is superior to the other, right,” Jehan says. “That's what I was referencing.” He runs a hand through his long hair—bleached ethereal blond at the moment, though just last week it was fading from teal into some kind of wispy marshmallow-y blue. It almost clashes with his skin, but only almost. “You down?”

“I usually only work alone,” Grantaire says. “But I haven't been very inspired lately, so--”

“I'll lean on you and you lean on me and we'll be okay?” Jehan says. His voice is completely deadpan, and so Grantaire can't be sure, but he thinks Jehan is fucking with him.

“You didn't seriously go from Balzac to Nickelback,” Grantaire says carefully.

“Dave Matthews Band,” Jehan says. “But close enough.”

Grantaire laughs. “Fuck it. Let's move your easel into my studio. We can probably get in a couple of hours before dinner.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“You know, I thought you would've gone for Picasso.”

“I do go for Picasso,” Jehan says. “Nothing like a good weirdo misogynist to get the loins tingling.”

“Not like that,” Grantaire says. “'Inspiration has to find you working' or whatever.”

“But the Dave Matthews reference was so much funnier,” Jehan says. “I try not to be _expected_ , and everyone expects Picasso from me all the time. I can't always give Picasso, you know? Sometimes you get Dave Matthews Band.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“Do you actually _listen to_ Dave Matthews Band?”

“Jesus, no,” Jehan says, laughing as he and Grantaire lift his easel. “But I do my research.”

“So none of you is spontaneous.”

“It's all spontaneous, it's just the kind of spontaneity with a good foundation.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you high?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can you share next time?”

Jehan shrugs enigmatically and plants his easel down next to Grantaire's. They sit down almost in sync, look at their reference pictures, and draw.

*

Grantaire's advisor emails him with “URGENT—COME SEE ME” in the subject line, which means that Grantaire is immediately on-edge all day long.

He skips all his classes trying to work up the nerve to go see his advisor, the churning in his stomach never-ending despite the fact that he's pretty sure he hasn't done anything wrong. He thinks about it: maybe he's signed up for a class he's forgotten to drop, or maybe he's missing a requirement that he needs to take a class he wants to take, or maybe there's something he hasn't taken that his advisor thinks he needs to graduate. He gears up: the red Docs he bought on eBay for so little that he's not entirely sure they weren't stolen, a black canvas jacket with metal details on the sleeves that are just about to break off, skinny jeans he thinks he's had since he was a freshman in high school and which show it, because his thighs are much bigger now.

It feels like armor, the kind of thing Grantaire would wear to a fight if he ever got into any. If he was in a war with the school, he supposes that this is what he'd wear to the first battle.

When he eventually makes up his mind to trek to the advising department, Grantaire's advisor is out to lunch.

Grantaire sits in the waiting room, scratching stiff vertical lines into the upholstered couch with the sharp edge of the metal on his sleeve. He tries to make them as perfectly parallel to each other as possible so that they pass through the stiff décor of the chair evenly. He likes the effect, he thinks, and snaps a photograph of it with his phone before his advisor gets back.

“Hello, Grantaire,” his advisor says.

“Hi, Jean,” Grantaire says. “You said it was urgent?”

“Ah, yes,” Valjean says. “Come into my office.”

He's carrying two steaming cups of Starbucks, and offers one to Grantaire when they sit down.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says.

Coffee isn't really his thing, but he feels like it's necessary here, the kind of thing that will make this conversation easier thank it could be otherwise. He wishes he'd thought to smoke a bowl before coming, or at least have a shot or two. He can't stop tapping his foot restlessly against the floor and he wonders if he looks like a little kid at the principal's office, because that's exactly what he feels like.

“I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted to meet with you,” Valjean says.

“Is everything okay?” Grantaire blurts, the words coming out of his mouth before he's actively decided to say them. “I mean—with my degree?”

“Yes, yes,” Valjean says. “Everything's fine, I think.”

He logs into the system, checks Grantaire's degree status. “Yes, everything is up to your usual standards … nice job last semester … You look on track to graduate, potentially with honors, and with both of your majors ...”

“So—what was so urgent?”

“We haven't spoken since before your summer program,” Valjean says. “Your instructor told me your piece was excellent.”

“It was awful,” Grantaire says, still not thinking actively about his words.

He feels relief flooding into him, so potent he thinks he might vomit. He actually regrets skipping his classes. He wants a cigarette or a puff of weed or _something_ , just so he stops feeling like he's about to vibrate out of his skin.

“We are our own worst critics,” Valjean says. He gives Grantaire that odd, sad smile of his. “How is your semester going?”

“It's okay so far,” Grantaire says. “Boxing hasn't started up yet, so I'm still relatively free to—you know—study, go to class ...”

This is the point where someone like his high school guidance counselor, or maybe Joly in armchair psychologist mode, might tell him that he needs to learn to prioritize. But he can't help it if he thinks boxing is more important than intro philosophy classes. He can't help it if he feels like he _needs_ boxing, like it's vital to his continued existence in a way that reading Nietzsche just isn't. It's another way he doesn't fit in here, more evidence that his presence in such an institution is a fluke, a combination of affirmative action tugging things for once in his favor along with sports recruiting and a heavy dose of dumb luck.

He takes a sip of his Starbucks. It's sickly sweet, more syrup than coffee. The taste hangs in his mouth after he's swallowed, and he wants to wash it out with cold water immediately.

“I wanted to see if you'd thought about any possible summer plans,” Valjean says.

Grantaire stares at him. “It's September,” he says.

“Time passes quickly after midterms,” Valjean reminds him. “Soon after, it'll be Thanksgiving—and then soon after that, you'll move on to final exams, and then winter break, and then next semester, and then--”

“Right,” Grantaire says. “Right. But what if I don't know what I want to do this summer?”

“I wondered what you'd thought of Professor Klein.”

“I thought Professor Klein was an idiot,” Grantaire says.

“Professor Klein was very impressed with your work this summer.”

“Professor Klein was impressed with the worst work I've ever done.”

“So imagine how he'd feel about the best work you've ever done,” Valjean says.

“I'm not interested in selling my art,” Grantaire says.

It's humiliating enough being graded on it, having to cater to instructors who feel like they've failed in their own careers. He doesn't want to watch as people overlook his pieces until he prices them so low he might as well be selling them in Central Park. He doesn't want to compare how much they'll pay for his stuff with how much they'll pay for other stuff, stuff by established artists or worse, stuff by amateurs like him.

“This isn't only about selling your art,” Valjean says. “Professor Klein says he'd like to show a series of your work in a gallery he's opening next fall.”

“I probably won't have time for that,” Grantaire says. “I plan on working at a design firm this summer if I can get an internship at one, or just doing freelance design work. I'm taking web design next semester and I'm pretty good with Photoshop already, so--” He trails off, pauses mid-shrug, and runs a hand through his hair compulsively. “I've designed some flyers and stuff.”

“A show in Paris is a massive stepping stone in the industry,” Valjean says. “Even just one piece--”

“Are you an artist?” Grantaire asks. He knows he's being an asshole now, tries to keep his voice level and can't, desperately craves a cigarette. He takes another sip of the coffee.

“No, but--”

“Then you don't know that not every one of us wants to make it big in the industry,” Granatire says. “A nice job designing logos and websites for eighty dollars an hour, that's all I need.”

“I didn't think of you as the type to think about your future in terms of monetary value.” Valjean's eyes usually crinkle at the corners even when he isn't smiling, but now his lips are pressed into a very straight line. He sips from his coffee, too, and continues watching Grantaire carefully. “I suppose if that is your goal, then it would be in your best interest to look at internships in the design industry. I can print out some resources if you're interested.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says. “I am.”

*

He texts Joly, Bossuet, and Eponine in indignation, but none of them respond in kind.

 _thats awesome dude!!!_ comes a text from Joly almost immediately after, meaning he's bored in microbiology and iMessaging from his laptop.

 _yoooooo_ is Bossuet's initial response, and then, _ur not quitting boxing tho right? like—need u there bro_

Eponine doesn't respond at all until Grantaire sends a follow-up text: _no, i'm not going to actually do it though—i need to get a real job, u feel me?_

Joly: _don't be stupid, art's a real job_

Bossuet: _dude, stop being an asshole. art *is* a real job_

Eponine: _u srsly need to get laid what's yr grindr profile looking like? want me to tell montparnasse 2 show you a lil somethin somethin?_

Grantaire sighs and rolls his eyes even though Eponine can't see him.

_dude I don't want to sleep w montparnasse_

_ok....so make a grindr profile. “i'm ok looking but i make up for it in eagerness”_

_could I say “i'm alright in bed but i'm better with a pen”_

_no. do not quote fall out boy in your hook up app profiles._

_“im not that hot but i have a big dick and i know how to use it”_

_much better_ , Eponine says, and Grantaire tosses his phone down but is glad that, at the very least, he is smiling.

*

Cosette goes with him to the ABC meeting that night, just sort of shows up at his door five minutes before he's supposed to meet Joly and Bossuet and follows him to their building.

“This is Joly and Bossuet,” he says, introducing her.

“I'm Cosette,” she says.

“Ooh, the fabled Cosette!” Joly says.

“Dance captain extraordinairre!” Bossuet says. “Love interest of Courfeyrac's Pontmercy friend! But more importantly, undeniable badass if Grantaire is to be believed!”

Cosette looks around at Grantaire, who shrugs. Bossuet hasn't exactly said anything untrue, after all.

“What's your major?” Joly asks. “What year are you? Where you from? Not, like, _from_ , from, but where did you grow up? Who's your favorite 90s pop star?”

“I'm not quite a fable,” Cosette says. “Although I am known to have a moral or two. Uh—theoretical math, senior, Boston-ish even though I'm _from_ from Haiti, Aaliyah.”

“We've heard _so much_ about you,” Bossuet says. “Though neither Grantaire nor Marius thought to tell us that you're a certified _genius_ \--”

“Aaliyah,” Joly repeats. “I mean, _finally_ , some fucking variety, I was getting so sick of listening to that same Chvrches song at parties--what's your favorite album? And also song? And also--”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. “They're—a bit much.”

“Don't be rude,” Bossuet admonishes, and they arrive at the meeting almost late.

Enjolras gives them a Look. Or, really, he gives Grantaire a Look, that same disapproving glare he gets every week.

Grantaire rolls his eyes and settles in.

“Planning on heckling tonight?” Jehan whispers from beside him. “You know without friends, no one would want to live, even if he had all the goods--”

“And yet piety requires us to honor truth above our friends,” Grantaire says. “Seriously, we've all read it, not just brilliant classics majors like yourself. Anyway, I can't believe you're still quoting Aristotle. Aristotle, like, hates art—what did he say about it? 'All art is misrepresentation' or whatever.”

“Right now, you're misquoting Bentham, mislabeling it as Aristotle when the idea was actually something Plato tells us Socrates said, and missing the entire point,” Jehan says, grinning at him. “So apparently, we have _not_ all read it.”

“Okay, well, it's possible I used Sparknotes for most of the _Republic_ , but seriously, bronze people--”

“Hello, everyone,” Enjolras says from his spot at the front of the room. He's wearing an expensive-looking white t-shirt today. Grantaire sort of hates him for this, especially because it's _almost_ sheer. He feels like if he tries hard enough he can catch sight of some of the skin underneath. He wonders if it's lighter than Enjolras's arms are, and if so, how much lighter. He wonders how much of his tan is natural and how much is from the sun, because for Grantaire it varies so wildly that--

“Sorry, what?”

“We have a new member,” not-Courfeyrac says, with the air of one repeating himself for the third time. “And we've just asked you to introduce yourself.”

“Yeah, it's Cosette, we've known each other for like three years, she's my dance captain, hi Cosette, I'm Grantaire—junior--visual arts and art history—”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, the tops of his cheekbones turning that lovely shade of bright red that he seems to keep on reserve for Grantaire. “Moving on--”

Cosette drags Grantaire away before he can follow the rest of the ABC to happy hour, though. It's at the Tall Boys tonight because the Musain is closed for renovations this week—what kind of renovations only take a week in New York fucking City, Grantaire doesn't know, but he's been to the Tall Boys before and they have a decent selection of cheap whiskey.

“We have practice,” Cosette says. “I knew you were bullshitting about these meetings running long—Eponine! Hey, Ep--”

Eponine glances over.

“What's up?”

“Are you coming to practice?”

Eponine shrugs. It's a coolly fluid motion, one that Grantaire knows is meant to indicate both a positive response and a neutral response to the fact that Cosette is asking her. It's supposed to say, “Yeah, obviously I'm coming,” and “Whatever,” at the same time. It is perfectly Eponine, so much so that Grantaire almost laughs aloud.

“Does that mean yes?” Cosette asks.

Grantaire actually does laugh this time. “Yes, Jesus. Come on, let's go change.”

“Where are you going?”

Grantaire almost whirls around, but he subdues himself just in time. Or at least, he hopes he does: Eponine shifts and smiles or maybe smirks, so he thinks he might have whirled just a little bit.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “Yes?”

“Nothing, I just--”

“Where are you going?” Enjolras says again. “I thought you were coming to the Tall Boys for drinks--”

“How do you even go to the Tall Boys?” Grantaire blurts. “Don't you know they exploit the shit out of their workers?”

Enjolras blinks. He might be about to smile, or he might be about to scream. Either way, Grantaire can't stick around to find out, because Marius is batting his eyelashes at Cosette and Eponine is rolling her eyes in a way that he is pretty sure means, “Get me the fuck out of here _now_.”

The three of them walk to practice in semi-silence, Cosette half-smiling and Eponine glaring at her phone, shoulders hunched. Grantaire wonders how she can be simultaneously so graceful and so … not. But then, he supposes, trying to make his shoulderblades meet one another in an effort to stretch out his back, maybe he's graceful and not, too. He's good at dance and boxing, and there's a grace to both, but he's also been known to trip over his own feet running up the steps.

“Combeferre is really sweet,” Cosette says. “Eponine--”

But Eponine only stalks forward, unresponsive. Cosette looks over at Grantaire, who shrugs.

“Do you think we have time to get dinner before practice?” he asks instead.

“We just had pizza,” Eponine says. “And they splurged for something good this time so they could also get something vegan, so--”

Grantaire groans and follows her into the practice room.

*

The thing about dance practice, the best thing, is that it doesn't start with suicide sprints.

Grantaire can't articulate how much he hates suicide sprints, how utterly useless they are at anything other than getting him properly warmed up, which he supposes is the point.

This, the stretching and the flexibility, this is what he lives for. There is something inherently soothing about developing excellent breath control, about ensuring that the muscles you've been honing are also lithe and mobile and not merely large and stiff. This is the first thing he likes about dance.

The second thing he likes about dance is actually dancing. He and Eponine do contemporary dance because they both did gymnastics in high school, because it's the right kind of practice for their respective winter sports, and because they like it best. Grantaire did ballroom, briefly, in middle school, and like everyone else who's into dance, he tried ballet when he was young. His mother was friends with the owner of the ballet studio, so Grantaire got lessons for free.

He liked ballet, he remembers, but there was something about it—the culture, maybe, or the way people looked at him for being this one awkward brown boy in a group of wealthy white girls—that he never got used to. So he left, did gymnastics for a while, learned how to waltz, all before he turned fourteen.

They move from regular stretches into yoga now, and Grantaire is struck for a moment by the fact that he now does yoga more often than he runs. He's pretty sure he loves that fact, and he enters most positions with more gusto than the other dancers.

“We're just going to practice our routines today, I think,” Cosette says. “Andrew—you and I have our choreography down, so we just want to ensure that we've perfected the smaller movements. Eponine, Grantaire—I want you in practice room B making sure you recall every motion of the routine you trialed last year. I think if you really work on the minor details, you can get close to a win.” She moves on to the other pairs, echoing the same awkward desire for perfection, as Eponine and Grantaire move into practice room B.

“You want to practice our flips first?” Eponine asks.

Grantaire nods, and they do that for a few minutes before moving into the more complex parts of their choreography, where they have to be perfectly in sync and where he has to catch her and then toss her in the air and then catch her again. He's always been good at this, at lifts and at synchronizing with his partner. It helps that it's Eponine, whom he's probably spent more time with in the last three years than even Bossuet and Joly.

Cosette slinks into the room a little later to observe.

“Can you walk me through the full routine?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says.

“Okay,” Eponine says.

It goes surprisingly well, Grantaire thinks, running a hand through his wet hair at the end of it. The captain is smiling, and Eponine even has the beginnings of a grin on her face.

“That looks great,” Cosette says. “You two can stretch and hit the showers, I think.”

“There aren't any showers in this building,” Grantaire says.

Cosette rolls her eyes. “Go home, then. Get clean. I'll see you in class.”

“I'm starving,” Eponine says, pulling her sweater back on. “Let's grab some dinner first.”

“I thought you said we'd just had pizza--”

“That was before a super intense workout,” Eponine says, and Grantaire forgets sometimes that she thinks of dance like that, like a workout and not like a form of art.

“Where do you want to go? The Tall Boys?”

“Their veggie burgers are good,” Eponine admits. She glances at herself in one of the mirrors that line the room. “Yeah, let's go there.”

“I'm just going to go shower,” Cosette says, and for a moment the awkwardness hangs in the air, threatening to suffocate them.

But then Eponine smiles, and it looks like a genuine attempt, more upward quirk of the lips and less canine than usual. “Good plan,” she says, and Grantaire can breathe again.

*

The rest of the ABC is mostly still there when they arrive, curled around a combination of booths and tables in a back corner. They look up when Eponine and Grantaire arrive, look slightly surprised at their arrival.

“Hi, guys!” Marius says cheerfully when they sit down. “Is—uh--”

“Cosette's showering,” Grantaire says, delighting at Marius's sheepish pink flush. “She decided not to be gross.”

“I'll get you two drinks,” not-Courfeyrac—Combeferre--offers, standing up so that Eponine and Grantaire can slide into the booth. “Beers are okay, right?”

“Beers are terrific,” Eponine confirms.

“I just thought—because you're athletes--”

“They're perfect, Combeferre,” Grantaire says. He's pretty sure he pronounces it wrong, but he prides himself on at last getting the name at least sort of right.

“We were just talking about law schools,” Bahorel says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “All these people know how to talk about is academia, seriously--”

“You were pretty adamant that a 172 LSAT score wouldn't be good enough to get you into Harvard Law, so--”

“That was just a silly joke,” Bahorel says, shrugging. “Who wants to do shots?”

“Shots? On a Tuesday?”

“I agree, Enjolras—they fit in much better on Wednesdays,” Courfeyrac says.

“Wednesday is indeed shot day,” Combeferre says, returning with a tray of drinks. “For our track stars--”

“Boxing,” Grantaire corrects, and

“Swimming,” Eponine deadpans.

“--Whatever,” Combeferre says. He smiles, his perfect teeth gleaming just like everyone else in the ABC's. Grantaire wonders if that's a requirement to get in, if you have to be a non-sexist socialist with perfect teeth and above a 3.5. He also wonders, briefly, which of them Combeferre is flirting with. He's pretty sure Combeferre has a thing with Enjolras, but Enjolras doesn't seem to be paying much attention to them, if at all.

“This one's for you, Joly,” Combeferre says, handing him something that Grantaire is pretty sure is just vodka with a few olives in it.

Joly seems to take this opening as his opportunity to make an announcement. “Grantaire got an offer to show a collection in Paris,” he says, beaming at Grantaire as if unable to contain himself any longer.

It's more friendly brag than anything, but it still makes the hair on the backs on Grantaire's arms bristle. He knows Joly doesn't mean anything by it, but he hates the feeling in his gut at the thought. He drinks from the glass immediately and swallows too much, wincing at the bitter taste of Combeferre's choice of stout.

“Really?” Combeferre says. His interest looks piqued again. “What does that entail, exactly?”

“It'd just be a collection of ten to twelve pieces in the corner of a gallery,” Grantaire says. “It's a nice idea, but I'm not doing it.”

“Why not?”

This comes from Enjolras, who is looking at Grantaire with something resembling intrigue instead of irritation for the first time since they've met.

Grantaire shrugs. “It'd be difficult to do that while also working on a design internship.”

“So why not ditch the design internship?” Courfeyrac asks.

Grantaire shifts in his seat, sips from his drink before answering. “A design internship puts me on track to a design job,” he says. “That's a thriving industry, you know? I'd get connections and be able to work in graphic design like, long-term.”

“But you're not interested in graphic design,” Enjolras says.

“What?” Grantaire says.

“You said so in your first meeting. 'I got bored with Photoshop, so I decided to fuck with real paint.'”

“Did you just quote me verbatim? That was like, three weeks ago, dude.”

Enjolras merely stares at him in response.

Grantaire sighs. “I mean, long-term, would I rather be painting or sculpting than designing logos and websites for entitled wannabes? Sure. But it's not, like, fiscally feasible.”

“Money isn't everything,” Enjolras says. “Frankly, I'm surprised you're more interested in money than in art, considering the disdain you have for it.”

“For art?”

“For money,” he clarifies. “When we met--”

Courfeyrac blinks in sudden recognition. “This is that guy?” he says. “Really? _Grantaire?_ ”

But Enjolras doesn't answer, still too set on arguing with Grantaire.

“When we met, you were adamant that the wealthy were the problem with this school and, by extension, the world. And I don't disagree with you—but why are you so eager to become one of them?” He crosses his arms in a way that's clearly supposed to be triumphant, like he's just trumped Grantaire somehow. “I thought you were interested in dismantling the capitalist hierarchies in which we live, not jumping ahead in them.”

“I think you're underestimating the importance of supporting myself,” Grantaire says. “Like, it's cool that you think art is a viable career, but it's not like my dad is going to start selling himself to pay for my rent so I can paint pretty pictures for a living.”

“Don't be absurd,” Enjolras says. “You'd be able to support yourself--”

“Not everyone has a trust fund and two different Canada Goose jackets,” Grantaire says. “I need a job that can pay for my rent and my parents' retirement and help with my sister's school, not a job that has me gallivanting around Europe increasing my credit card debt and trying desperately to get recognized in an industry that has very rarely been kind to people like me.”

“Well, if you don't believe that you can--”

“It's not about belief,” Grantaire says. “It's about _realism_ \--”

“There are support systems--”

“Not for brown artists.”

“But there are--”

“Can you just accept that I know more about this than you do?” Grantaire says. “If I don't want to participate in the metaphorical dog show that is the art industry, then I don't have to, right?”

“So it's not about money. It's about confidence.” Enjolras looks triumphant.

“No,” Grantaire says. “It's about security.”

“But--” Enjolras starts, and then seems to realize that most of the ABC is staring at them. “Fine,” he says, deflating. “But I still think you should do it.”

“Luckily for me, you don't really get a say.”

“Grantaire, we should go,” Eponine says, and Grantaire doesn't even let her finish her sentence before he's on his feet, pushing his way out of the booth.

*

Grantaire is on time to boxing the next morning, mostly because he barely sleeps.

Coach has hired a state-of-the-art yoga instructor, and Grantaire closes his eyes, lets her voice lead him. It's good to unwind this way after his fight with Enjolras, after a full day's worth of anxiety about his advising appointment and arguing that calling someone a sell-out is fucking _classist_ , dammit--

No one called him a sell-out, though, Grantaire thinks. At least not in those terms.

He stretches into an extended triangle and breathes.

That evening, he opens grindr for the first time in months. Sure enough, Montparnasse is there, though he's only pictured neck-down. Grantaire is very aware of the fact that he can recognize Eponine's on-again off-again boyfriend from the neck down, and he closes his eyes and swallows hard and messages him.

_you around?_

_yeah you in your room?_

_yeah_

_see you in 10?_

_sounds good,_ Grantaire types, and when Montparnasse gets there, all tight pants and smug smiles and stolen designer scarves, Grantaire feels a sick sense of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm retiring that C-dude joke now. Who knew so many funny words started with that letter, anyway? Also, please note how very well tailored they were to either Combeferre or Courfeyrac depending on whose name Grantaire couldn't remember.
> 
> I think the every-other-Friday thing is probably not going to happen, so let's alter it: updates every other _weekend_ , but most likely on Saturdays.


	3. october, part two; or, midterms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief warning: Grantaire's head is a pretty bleak space to be in this chapter, and if this is something that will make you feel uncomfortable/unmotivated, then you might want to hold off on reading it until after exam season. If you don't want to read it at all but _do_ want a summary of events so that you can continue reading after this chapter, please feel free to reach out to me.

Midterm season hits most of his friends hard and by surprise, but Grantaire is sitting pretty in his room, lazily fleshing out a paper on early 20th century art movements. He doesn't have an easy semester, exactly, but when all your grades are papers and art projects, it's hard to justify get too stressed out during midterms because you just don't have any. Other people can freak out and get worried, but Grantaire doesn't really think he has much of a right to.

This means he's in for a lot of hanging out alone, though, because even Jehan has a test or two. (“It's the classics,” Jehan said, shrugging apologetically at him in the last ABC meeting. “They take hold of you and they never let you go. Classics majors are the Sisyphi of modern life.”)

(To which Grantaire responded: “I thought you were only a Classics concentrator.”)

(To which Jehan said: “You, sir, are no Thanatos.”)

(To which Grantaire said: “Wait, but wasn't Sisyphus, like, a jackass?”)

(To which Jehan only shook his head sadly and said: “I'll never win my Pulitzer if I sit here jabbering away with you all day.” It was shockingly lucid and reference-free, and Grantaire is still reeling from it.)

But then there are some people who never go to the library, go out every night, and look like they can barely operate a calculator, let alone create a properly-formatted and perfectly-cited 20-page paper on Microsoft Word that features several dozen footnotes in varying lengths and discussing various otherwise unrelated topics. They somehow end up with perfect GPAs anyway, like alcohol and weed fuel them instead of coffee and junk food. 

Grantaire used to think this was a function of their parents' wealth, and he's still pretty sure that some people _do_ only get away with it because their parents are donors. But not everyone. Some of them are just sheer intelligence, weirdos who can crank out twenty pages in two hours without breaking a sweat and while mainlining cheap vodka mixed with Red Bull to stay awake. Grantaire's known people who can do physics exams hungover and underslept and still score well above the mean. He's known people who can do an entire problem set on the subway ride between the Upper West Side and the Meat-Packing District. And now, he's known people who can get a 172 on the LSAT after an evening of smoking up and dancing with half a harem's worth of fellow students, having never so much as glanced at the format beforehand.

Bahorel is one of these people, and it means that he's one of the few members of the ABC that isn't studying like their lives depend on it and therefore the only person Grantaire can expect to respond to a text begging for an eighth and a smoking companion in the middle of the afternoon the Sunday before midterms begin in earnest.

“I thought you'd lightened up on the smoking for boxing,” Bahorel says, rolling a joint so perfect it looks store-bought. There's a filter and everything. Grantaire's mouth waters.

“Yeah, cigarettes,” Grantaire says, taking the joint when offered it. “This is whatever, you know, like-it's nothing on cigarettes. Just a little smoke for a lot of good.”

“Like, I have a vape, dude,” Bahorel says. “We could totally have gone for that.”

“I have one somewhere, too,” Grantaire says. “For when boxing season's in full swing and I have a painting due or whatever. But I kinda like the burn, you know?” He passes the joint back to Bahorel, who does a hit and holds it in for a long time, long enough that it starts to get awkward for Grantaire, who has never been too good with silence. “I don't know, like, I just like smoking a lot and this gives you a lot of the benefits but none of the morning-after regret and also doesn't refuel your nicotine addiction?”

“I feel you, dude,” Bahorel says. He smiles up at the ceiling from his positioning on Grantaire's floor. “Dude, did you unplug the smoke detector?”

“It's been broken for, like, three years,” Grantaire says, already feeling a little lighter. He loves drugs like this that hit you immediately. It makes him almost wish he'd taken an anatomy class. “And there are like four towels blocking the door.”

“I brought Febreeze anyway,” Bahorel says. “Can't get you written up, right, dude.”

“Yeah, dude,” Grantaire says. “I'm not trying to pretend I'm not the biggest stoner this side of the Hudson River.”

“No, dude, _I'm_ the biggest stoner this side of the Hudson River.”

“Like, no, dude--”

“Bro, I will _fight you_.”

“Really? You want to fight a boxing champion?”

“A boxing champion who's high as fuck?” Bahorel snorts. “I'll take my chances.”

“Bro, I'm fucking _D1_ , that's no joke, dude.”

“Dude,” Bahorel says, and shoves him. 

Grantaire shoves him back, and then a lot more shoving takes place and Grantaire accidentally elbows Bahorel in the ribs and Bahorel accidentally puts all his weight on one of his hands which just happens to be pressed against Grantaire's eye and there's a lot of yelping and--

“Dude, fuck, where's the roach--”

“Shit, dude,” Bahorel says. “I think I swallowed it.”

Grantaire cackles. “No shit? Really?”

“Yeah, dude.”

Grantaire laughs harder, an attack of giggles that he can't stifle until Bahorel sits straight up. 

“I'd love to keep this going all day,” he says. “But I've got a date with a lovely girl who makes me laugh even more than you do, so--”

“You're going to a date stoned as fuck, dude?” Grantaire laughs harder. “That's such a bad idea, like--”

“No, bro, the date is getting more high at the park.” Bahorel shrugs. “That's why we get along. Lots of mutual interests.”

“What other mutual interests do you have?”

“Having sex with each other,” Bahorel says, winking and disappearing.

Grantaire doesn't get up from his position on the floor for a long time, and when he does, it's partially to roll another joint.

*

Grantaire is two hours and three pages into what's supposed to be an eight page paper due at midnight when he decides to go for a snack. He's made the rather foolish mistake of not stocking his snack-drawer before smoking himself out, so he pulls on his [butterfly sweatshirt](http://cdn-images.farfetch.com/10/81/55/28/10815528_3948900_322.jpg) and wanders downstairs to the vending machine in the building's lounge.

He's not sure if he's surprised or not to see Enjolras, his work spread out over an entire table, clattering away at his laptop.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, opening his bag of baked Lays noisily and earning himself a glare from a girl at a nearby table. “Would've thought you'd be more of a library guy.”

“Every single one of them is packed,” Enjolras says, glaring at his screen. “I just got kicked out for _monopolizing space_ , honestly, it's as if they understand neither basic economics nor _squatters' rights_.”

“Squatters' rights,” Grantaire repeats, deadpan. 

It's a shock as always to see Enjolras, the perfect cut of his jaw, that iconically straight nose. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras feels like marble, too, or only looks and acts exactly like it.

They haven't been fighting in ABC meetings, exactly, but sometimes Enjolras says things that are just so absurd that Grantaire has to correct him. And no one can stop him, because the ABC has these rules about how open democracies have to allow for all voices to be heard, and how freedom of speech is the core principle of all democracies, and how, as such, even those who dissent must be heard, because they are all autonomous beings capable of rational thought who are ends in themselves, or whatever. Grantaire's not clear on the explanation: he just knows he's supremely delighted at seeing the high points on Enjolras's cheekbones go red. It's the only time Grantaire's ever seen him express any sort of outward emotion. It takes a lot to get him there. 

And then, at the Musain after, Enjolras barely looks at him. Sometimes he looks over, more glare than glance, but mostly he talks to Feuilly about the war or one of the poli sci majors about their classes or even Eponine, about her family, whom Enjolras apparently knows or something. Grantaire's never even met Eponine's family, and they had a brief spell his sophomore year where she was practically living out of his dorm room because she didn't want to pay for housing.

So it's safe to say Grantaire and Enjolras probably haven't had a conversation without an audience since that first one outside Grantaire's door. He wonders if Enjolras even remembers it. 

“Squatters' rights,” Enjolras says again. He sounds a little bit like a malfunctioning computer. “I mean, seriously, though—if you get to the library at six in the morning, it's your right to take up as much room as you need to for all your stuff. Like, sorry that I have to read eight papers at once just to come up with background information for my essay?” He's sort of on a roll now, eyes lighting up the way they do when he's really pissed off about something. “I don't know, that's great, English major, that you have one stupid book to read? Go to a cafe or something?”

“Maybe _you_ should go to a cafe. That way you're paying for your squatters' rights.”

“This school costs sixty-two thousand dollars a year,” Enjolras says. “I _am_ paying for my squatters' rights.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. He doesn't even try to fight the urge to do it. He realizes a second later that he's laughing, too, or not laughing, but fucking _giggling_ , like a tween with a crush. It's just so absurd to him that Enjolras is here bitching about squatters' rights because some poor English major wanted a place to study.

“Maybe you should've gotten a desk,” Grantaire suggests.

“My stuff didn't fit,” Enjolras grumbles.

“It's possible you need an entire floor?”

“My room's too small.”

“Wow,” Grantaire says. “You really are in a pickle.”

Enjolras grimaces at his laptop. “You're not helping,” he says. “I'm glad you find my entire life and everything I do funny, but you're not helping.” 

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras looks up at last. “Jesus, what happened to your face?”

“What?”

“That black eye.” 

“What?”

Enjolras stands up, seizes Grantaire's chin so suddenly that Grantaire feels bile rush up his throat. Enjolras's thumb presses against Grantaire's jaw as he turns Grantaire's face a little to get a better angle. Grantaire jerks backward immediately, raises a hand to his face as if he can still feel Enjolras's hand there.

Enjolras stares at Grantaire like he's insane, which he imagines is exactly how it must look, and then sits back down.

“Bahorel fell on top of me,” Grantaire says. His throat is very dry. He tries to remember if Enjolras has ever touched him before, if he's ever reacted to _anyone_ touching him like that. He's pretty sure he'd be half-hard if he weren't so high.

“Right,” Enjolras says. He blinks. “Bahorel.” He looks down at what Grantaire is wearing, which, to be fair, is a little bit absurd. “Jesus, I thought Joly was joking.”

“What?”

“When he said you were obsessed with butterflies.”

“When did he say that?”

“When I asked him why he brought someone to the ABC who must surely have been named least-likely-to-change-the-world in his high school's yearbook, he just said that you liked butterflies.”

“I'll have you know,” Grantaire says, and his voice catches in his throat. He tries again. “I'll have you know that I was voted most-likely-to-succeed, best-hair, _and_ most-likely-to-have-a-work-on-display-at-the-Met-by-age-thirty.”

“That's a lot,” Enjolras says.

“Yeah, well, not a lot of students at shithole public schools are given the tools to succeed, so I guess I got lucky.”

“Grantaire--”

“What?”

“Are you stoned?”

“What?”

“Are you--”

“I fucking heard you, dude.”

“But you said--”

“Butterfly wings are perfectly symmetrical. You probably knew that. It makes them a total fucking _bitch_ to draw, like, you can't emulate natural perfection, you know, but evolutionarily, everything about them makes perfect sense. Some of them look poisonous and some of them have big fake eyes and they only live for less than a year after they've gone through metamorphosis. You know some moths only live for a couple of days?” Grantaire checks to see if Enjolras is still listening and is surprised to see that is. He pops another chip in his mouth, chews it carefully before continuing. “Moths are, like, the great fuck ups of nature. You know, like, they fly into the light and they die. You know scientists don't really know why they fly into fires?” He's still standing up, and he gets the idea that he's rambling, but Enjolras doesn't stop him, so Grantaire keeps going. “Some people think they're just disoriented, or that it's a survival mechanism, like they go toward the light to get out of swarms, but no one really knows and it doesn't logically make sense because they're nocturnal creatures, right, like, bats aren't attracted to light. Rats aren't. They make more sense evolutionarily. Moths are just—they're just fucked up butterflies.”

“Is that supposed to be a metaphor?” Enjolras says carefully.

Grantaire exhales through his nose. “ _No_ , Jesus, not everything is about poetry or whatever, you sound like Jehan. I'm just--” He sighs. “I'm just explaining why I like butterflies. I guess it's possible that robots don't, like, have the capacity to understand beauty yet or whatever.”

Enjolras eyes him. “You _do_ have good hair.”

“What?”

“Your senior superlative--”

“Oh.” Grantaire frowns. Most of his hair—the parts that fit—is up in some ridiculous approximation of a bun, the way it always is when he's working. Enjolras is looking at it now, frowning. “I think all the white people couldn't decide which person with the longest, blondest hair to vote for, but the minority community rallied around me, and now here I am.”

“That's how Taft became president.”

“Taft? Like, William Howard?”

Enjolras stares at him.

“What?” Grantaire says.

“Was your school—I mean, were there a lot of white people?”

“There are a lot of white people _everywhere_.”

“Not Baltimore.”

“Even Baltimore,” Grantaire says. “Ira Glass is from Baltimore, and you can't get much whiter--”

“You _are_ stoned,” Enjolras says triumphantly. “I knew it. How do you have time to do that during _midterms_ \--”

“Artists have no sense of time,” Grantaire says. “Mid nor middle, fin nor final--”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm just trying to distract you from your work,” Grantaire says. “Who are you reading? Samantha Power?”

Enjolras gives him a very dirty look. “You might doubt her effectiveness as the American ambassador to the UN, but it is impossible to deny her--her knowledge and expertise in a field that is so often complicated by politics--”

“Was that your thesis statement?” Grantaire asks. “Did you literally just _recite_ your fucking _thesis statement_? You really _are_ a robot.”

Enjolras glares at him.

Grantaire grins.

“I have to get back to work,” Enjolras says. 

“Have fun, Apollo,” Grantaire says, and leaves.

*

There is the distinct possibility that instead of working on his paper, Grantaire jerks off for much too long.

There is the distinct possibility that he has to shove his face against his pillow to prevent himself from saying Enjolras's name out loud when he comes.

There is a distinct possibility that Grantaire is well and truly fucked.

And not in the good way.

When Montparnasse texts him to ask, _u around?_ , Grantaire responds, _yeah, come over_ , and when Montparnasse sends Grantaire a picture of himself from the abdomen down, featuring his semi-hard dick and the floral tattoo sprouting from his happy trail, Grantaire sends him one back.

 _love the butterflies_ , Montparnasse texts. _i'll see you in a few._

Montparnasse shows up with a fifth of Grey Goose and some vermouth.

“You are so weird,” Grantaire says. “I mean, really?”

“You look high as fuck, dude.”

“Yeah, well.” Grantaire kisses him, stops only to pull off his shirt and start unbuttoning Montparnasse's.

“Wait, stop,” Montparnasse says. “Do you have any velvet hangers?”

“What?”

“Even wooden ones will do.”

“Dude, seriously?”

“I don't want my shirt to wrinkle,” Montparnasse says, shrugging. “If I have to iron it, it'll ruin the shape, and if I have to steam it the fibers might shrink, so--”

“Why'd you wear such a high maintenance shirt, then?”

Montparnasse gives him a very dirty look. “ _All_ my shirts are high maintenance.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but Montparnasse doesn't seem to notice. He opens Grantaire's closet, groans at it the way Grantaire has only ever seen Eponine do—they are really very similar, Grantaire thinks, and it makes sense that they've been dating forever even if it is only casual—and finds what he wants.

“Wood will have to do,” Montparnasse says. “Do us a favor, mix up a martini, yeah?”

“Why are you faking that English accent?” Grantaire says, pulling ice out of his freezer. “We all know you're from New York.”

“If by 'we all' you mean you and 'Ponine, then sure,” Montparnasse says, dropping the act almost immediately. 

There is the sound of something falling, and when Grantaire looks back Montparnasse has also dropped his pants and is standing in front of Grantaire's closet with his shoulders pushed back, practically preening. There's a new tattoo across his back, too, and it's a bird in vibrant shades of blue and green.

“I like the peacock,” Grantaire says. “Very fitting.”

“It's one of yours,” Montparnasse says. “Surprised you didn't notice it the other night.”

“I was preoccupied,” Grantaire says. “Not to mention drunk and sitting in the dark.”

“Right, well,” Montparnasse says, and takes the drink Grantaire pours out of a shaker for him. “I'm glad you're honing those bartending skills.”

“Not the only thing I'm honing.”

“That's a terrible pick up line.”

“You're not that hard to pick up.”

“Are you calling me a slut?”

“A little bit,” Grantaire says, swiping Montparnasse's glass and sipping from it. 

Grey Goose is exquisite, the kind of thing he could never justify buying but will gorge himself on at any given opportunity. When he bartends, it's all he uses to make himself drinks. It's just so clean, like water with a hint of fire to it.

Montparnasse reaches for Grantaire's cock before Grantaire has finished swallowing the second half of the martini.

“C'mere, R,” he says, and kisses Grantaire again. “You're already hard.”

“I had some—persuasion.”

“Don't tell me you watched porn without me.”

“Not quite.”

“Fantasizing, then?” Montparnasse asks, cupping Grantaire's cock through his pants. “Not about me, I hope?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire says. 

Montparnasse goes to work on his collar, sucking a hickey onto the splintering branch tattoo running parallel to the bone there. 

“Bed?” Grantaire suggests, and Montparnasse pushes him there, presses him against the side of the bed.

Grantaire looks up through half-closed eyes while Montparnasse fucks him, and for a split second mistakes the bleached blond for something more natural. He blinks, and Montparnasse swims back into focus, beautiful and heavy-lidded and bottle-blond, and Grantaire stretches his groan out to prevent it from forming into a name.

“How quick do you want this?” Montparnasse asks, his fingers curling around Grantaire's cock.

“Quick,” Grantaire says. “I have papers.”

“Just as well,” Montparnasse says. “I have to make sure the freshmen aren't fucking up the newspaper.” 

He kisses Grantaire, and Grantaire digs his fingernails into the peacock splashed across Montparnasse's back. He misses drawing birds, he thinks, and then Montparnasse squeezes just right and Grantaire doesn't think anything anymore.

*

His life adapts to its new routine quickly: Wake up. Box. Class. Work on paintings or projects in the studio or the library. On Tuesdays, go to ABC meetings. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, go to dance. Do not pass a bar. Do not collect two hours of fun.

He is not, Grantaire thinks as he comes to the close of his fourth-straight twenty-hour day, made for this. He is not like the rest of them. He is not equipped for this.

He's sitting in an ABC meeting when he realizes that his life has shrunk to mostly the people in this room. Eponine is his dance partner. Bossuet is his sparring partner. He doesn't even care about this stupid club, he doesn't fit in with any of these intelligent idealists, and he's here more on luck than merit—but they're still the only people he hangs out with. 

“Musain, everyone,” Courfeyrac says at the end of the meeting. “We could all use a break.”

“Not us,” Cosette says, gripping Grantaire by the back of his collar and matching Eponine's glare with one of her own. “Practice starts early tonight.”

“You're not coming?” Marius asks, and then immediately ducks his head as the tips of his ears go crimson. 

“I'm afraid not,” Cosette says. “But you should come to our competition next weekend.”

“You should all come,” Grantaire says, shoving his sketchpad in his bag and stretching as he gets out of his seat. “It's before the ABC party. Bring some liquor, make it a pregame.”

“We've never gone to one before,” Combeferre says. “Eponine's never--”

“Come on,” Eponine says, nudging Grantaire forward. “We can get a head start.”

“Maybe we'll finish early and the dictator over there'll let us go to the Musain afterward.”

“She most certainly will not,” Cosette says. “March, soldiers.”

Grantaire does, taking one of the sad flyers Courfeyrac is handing out as he does. He notices Enjolras, glaring at him as usual, standing by the door to hand out some more even sadder ones. 

“Miss me already?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras's face becomes, if possible, even stonier. His eyes flick down to Grantaire's neck, and Grantaire starts to feel incredibly aware of the hickeys blooming above the collar of his shirt. He takes a staggering step backward despite himself.

“You told Courfeyrac you'd help with the flyers,” Enjolras says.

“I sent him a tentative design last week and he didn't get back to me until this morning,” Grantaire says, feeling a little let-down. He thought maybe their odd conversation on Sunday might have been a breakthrough of sorts. Apparently, he'd thought wrong. “He'd already printed these and didn't want to waste the paper.”

“Well, some of us are too busy to focus on—extracurriculars.”

His heart sinks. It turns out Enjolras, like everyone else, thinks Grantaire is little more than a doodling idiot here on an athletics degree. A bubble of indignation bursts in the pit of his stomach. Boxing isn't even one of the sports their school recruits for.

“I never said he wasn't,” Grantaire says. “Jesus, Apollo--”

“Don't call me—”

“Let's _go_ ,” Eponine says, and yanks Grantaire's hand so hard he's sure he feels it pop out of his wrist.

*

Since dance has gotten stressful in the wake of their upcoming competition, and since boxing is about to stop being fun and start being serious, Grantaire's biggest solaces have been his post-art-class studio sessions with Jehan.

They've progressed enough that they barely talk while they're working, little hums now and then. They stay late one night during midterms since they've got a big piece due that week, and Grantaire can only watch as Jehan masterfully coaxes art out of the page. It's fascinating to watch, and it makes Grantaire think that it's a shame that Jehan doesn't do this full time. He's so good at it, like the art is already there and he just has to make it appear. It's just another example, Grantaire thinks, of how he is neither talented nor intelligent enough to be here, and he thinks about the box on his common app where he checked _African-American_ and swallows.

“It's not like that,” Jehan says when Grantaire accidentally complains about this aloud. “It's because I'm not an artist that it looks so easy.”

“What does that mean?”

Jehan frowns. “I don't know. You seem—not convinced by the art anymore, right?”

“What?”

“Like, art for art's sake. You don't see value in it.”

“Of course I see value in it--”

“I mean in _you_ making art for art's sake.”

“There's value in it,” Grantaire says. “Just not the kind of value that'll keep food on the table.”

Jehan purses his lips. “Because you see art as your future career.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says. “Yeah, exactly--”

“Do you think art history could have anything to do with that?”

“The intellectualization of art?”

“Yeah. 'Interpretation is the revenge of the intellectual on art,' right?”

“I guess.” Grantaire stares at his canvas and then looks over at Jehan.

Jehan sighs. “Let's go back to my place for drinks. I don't think we're getting anything else done tonight.”

Jehan tucks his charcoals into his bag and stands up, waits for Grantaire to do the same.

Grantaire follows him out, waiting for Jehan to finish his thought.

“I see art as supplementary,” Jehan says, once they've reached his dorm room and sat down with a bottle of chardonnay. “That's why it's easy. It's just a hobby.”

Grantaire exhales through his teeth and sips at the wine. “I don't see it like that.”

“Exactly.” Jehan looks almost apologetic. “I used to want to be a poet.”

“Used to?”

“I can't do it on demand,” Jehan says. “I mean, I can, but it's not particularly good. Not like the stuff I do just for me. And I keep thinking, like, the stakes aren't even that high. What happens if I write a bad poem for a college class? I get a bad grade. What happens if I write a bad anthology of poems for a publisher?”

“You don't sell any copies, you get evicted, you move back in with your parents,” Grantaire says. “Yeah. Exactly.” He hasn't heard anyone verbalize it quite so well.

Jehan raises his glass. “We are logical, and the future looks bleak indeed. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Grantaire says dully.

“Fuck this,” Jehan says. “Who has time for self-pity? I'm going to cut my hair.”

“Drunk?”

“I've had like half a glass of wine.”

“And I'm pretty sure you smoked at least a gram before class, so--”

“It's been hours since then.”

Grantaire glances at his phone. Jehan's right: it's nearly eleven.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says. “I have boxing in like seven hours.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Jehan says, in a way that makes Grantaire think he actually believes it. “Can you come make sure I don't totally fuck this up? Combeferre'll kill me if I leave hair everywhere, too.”

Grantaire follows him into the suite bathroom, glass and bottle in hand. “Why doesn't Combeferre live with Enjolras?”

“They tried that out sophomore year,” Jehan says. “Turns out Enjolras is way too crazy to live with anyone.”

“Not that suprising,” Grantaire says, pouring himself more wine. “What about Courfeyrac?”

“He and Marius have been rooming together since freshman year.” Jehan wets his hair in the sink and throws it over his face, starts snipping. “Do you think I could rock an undercut?”

“Like, a side one or a nape one?”

“A side one.”

“Those things are like four years past trend.”

“True,” Jehan says. “Not even old enough to be vintage.” He chops one tuft shorter than the rest. “What if I just go full asymmetrical?”

“That looks okay,” Grantaire says. “What about bangs?”

“Bangs always fuck up my braids,” Jehan says. “I like messy braids, but not _that_ messy.” 

He stops, looks at Grantaire. “You need a haircut, too.”

“Nah, I don't.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“You think so?”

“I have some clippers,” Jehan says. “Just let me take a little off.”

“Actually,” Grantaire says. “Actually, I've gotten kind of tired of—of having so much, you know?”

“Mm,” Jehan says, examining his ends in the mirror and trimming some of them. “So--”

“Can you just like—shave up the nape of my neck?”

“Ah, the 2015 on-trend nape undercut!” Jehan says. “I'd be delighted. I cut Combeferre's hair. I can even do shapes now, you know.”

The door to the suite opens. “Are you home?” Combeferre calls.

“We're in here!” Jehan calls back. 

He pulls most of Grantaire's absurdly thick hair up into a bun that is much neater than Grantaire's usual one and starts trimming and then shaving what's left.

“Oh,” Combeferre says, peeking in. His hair looks very neat and proper. Grantaire imagines Jehan trying to carve shapes into it and Combeferre fighting back violently. “Hello, Grantaire!”

“Hello, Combeferre,” Grantaire says.

“Are you getting a haircut?” Combeferre asks. “Enjolras won't be happy with that.”

Jehan snorts. Actually, physically snorts. Literally sounds like an actual pig. 

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn't like change,” Combeferre says, and Jehan snorts again.

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire says. “He's obsessed with change.” He wrenches away from Jehan with some effort. “What are you talking about?”

“You just got hair all over the floor,” Jehan complains. “And I almost cut your throat open, I mean come on, you probably don't want to piss off the person holding four blades against your neck--”

“Ultimately,” Combeferre says, “I think he'll respect the choices you've made.”

“Let me finish,” Jehan says, seizing Grantaire once more and shaving somewhat more aggressively. “Jesus.”

“Don't make me bald or you'll regret it, Prouvaire.”

“Oh, please,” Jehan says. “It'd probably grow back in about five minutes. You _already have stubble_ , Jesus--”

“Don't worry about it,” Combeferre says. “Jehan cuts my hair, and it looks great.”

Grantaire looks up at him. The cut _does_ accentuate Combeferre's cheekbones nicely, and it doesn't interfere with his glasses or anything. 

“I guess my overgrown Hitler Youth look wasn't really doing anything for me,” Grantaire says.

“That's what that was?” Jehan says. 

“I don't think we're calling it that,” Combeferre says. “And also, I don't think that's the haircut you had, Grantaire.”

“Like you would know—oh, fuck, did you just--”

“Your hair's not really curly enough to hold a design as well as Combeferre's does,” Jehan says. “But we can do, like, a simple triangle or something--”

“Combeferre has designs in his hair?”

“I let Jehan do it every couple of cuts,” Combeferre says, shrugging. “I kind of like it. Makes me look edgy.” 

“You are so much weirder than I thought you were when I first met you.”

“Thanks.” Combeferre says this without any irony, flashes a little bit of his perfect smile. “I'm going to bed. Night, Jehan. Night, Grantaire.”

“You're good, I think,” Jehan says a moment later, holding a mirror up to the back of Grantaire's head like they're in a barbershop and not a dorm bathroom. “Good or bad?”

Grantaire inspects it: the hair on the nape of his neck has been shaved down to almost nothing, but what's still there is carved into a neat, pointy triangle. There's actually a lot gone, and he sort of likes the effect when most of it is pulled back like this.

“I dub thee Grantaire, possessor of perfect man-bun,” Jehan says, tapping Grantaire on both shoulders with his clippers. “Now get yourself to bed, darling, and don't worry about leaving a tip.”

“A tip?” Grantaire repeats. “You asked _me_ \--”

“I said don't _worry_ about it,” Jehan says, some snappishness entering his typically mystical drawl. “Get thee to--”

“A nunnery?”

“A _bed_ ,” Jehan says, “--though potentially _at_ a nunnery, don't get me wrong.”

“Right,” Grantaire says. “Good night, weirdo.”

“Good night, citizen.”

“ _Citiz--_ ,” Grantaire repeats incredulously, but is interrupted by Jehan closing the bathroom door briskly in his face.

*

“You shaved your head right before dance,” Cosette says, voice very stiff. “You'd better not be planning on trying to pull off a man bun during this competition or I swear to God, Grantaire--”

“You're totally good,” Grantaire assures her. “I'll wear it however you want.”

“Good,” Cosette says. She is wired all tight, standing with her shoulders pulled back so hard that she looks like a bird about to take flight. Grantaire has rarely seen her this tense. “Your eye looks disgusting, and that hickey is definitely going to show in your costume.”

“Eponine said she'd do my makeup for me,” Grantaire says.

“Good,” Cosette says again, and, to Grantaire's relief, smiles. Her whole body relaxes when she smiles, chin dropping, skin no longer looking like it's stretched so tight it'll snap. She flexes her fingers and sighs. 

“I'll be glad when this is over,” she says, and Grantaire can't help but nod in agreement.

*

The gym is hot, and the lights are blinding.

When they dance at other schools, sometimes there are dedicated dance halls. Sometimes there are rooms for club activities. Sometimes, they compete in the gym.

They do that here, because the rooms they practice in are too small for an audience and because they aren't a varsity sport so no one in the administration gives much of a shit about them. Most of their budget is spent booking gyms. The rest goes to buses, but sometimes they have to pay out of pocket for them, too.

“You ready?” Grantaire asks.

Eponine looks nervous, even more so than usual. Her hair is tame today, dark and glossy and pulled into a bun so that no one can see that more than half of it is neon pink. Cosette doesn't mind nontraditional looks, usually, but the judges for this week's competition are notoriously conservative. 

“Look who's here,” Eponine says, indicating the one corner of the crowd that clearly isn't concerned with the art of dance.

“Jesus,” Grantaire says. “I can't believe they all came.”

“They have fucking posters,” Eponine says, half-awed. “I knew we shouldn't have invited them.”

“Courfeyrac smuggled in liquor, look.”

Sure enough, Courfeyrac is passing around a nondescript Sprite bottle. He is being very obvious. No one takes swigs of Sprite.

“Yeah,” Eponine says. 

She's looking at the person sitting next to Courfeyrac, whose eyes are trained on the opposite side of the room, where Cosette is talking to another dance team's captain. 

“Marius isn't shit,” Grantaire says in what he hopes is a comforting voice.

“You don't know him,” Eponine snaps back. “At least he doesn't treat me like dirt on the bottom of his boot.”

“What's _that_ supposed to--”

“Dancers,” the judges call. “Positions!”

Grantaire takes his position opposite Eponine. He looks up, and there is the man who treats him like dirt on the bottom of his boot. Enjolras looks resplendent in dark green, and he is watching Grantaire, and he is holding the Sprite bottle, and he is smiling.

The music starts, and Eponine leaps.

*

It goes wildly, horribly wrong.

In his defense, Grantaire has been training this routine since the end of last spring semester. In his defense, his boxing coach has been stacking on practice after practice because the season will start before they know it. In his defense, his and Cosette's last midterm paper was due this morning, and neither of them planned well enough to get much sleep before the actual day of the competition.

There's nothing really to defend.

Grantaire stands in Eponine's shower numbly, thinking about each misstep, about how he almost dropped Eponine. He's not sure he's danced so badly in his life, not when he was ten and dancing ballet and not when he was in high school juggling gymnastics with boxing and not when he was a freshman terrified of failing. That year, he and Eponine danced a wonderful contemporary dance routine that brought the audience to tears during their first competition. 

This year, their routine failed. They have two more competitions before the boxing and swimming seasons start, and they'll be back in the spring semester for four more, but for now it feels like the end of the world.

He stumbles out of the shower only because Eponine is opening the door, glaring around it at him.

“We need to get going,” she says.

“You're seriously in the mood to party right now?” he asks, wrapping a towel around his waist. 

“We're going to the party because it's down the hall,” Eponine says. She is already clean, and somehow has managed to manipulate her hair into something twisty-looking even though it's still kind of wet. “We're going to the party because one of us might get laid. We're going to the party because you are in desperate need of some loosening up.”

“Says you,” Grantaire says. “I've been floating around stoned all the time--”

“Exactly,” Eponine says. “You only smoke this much when you're wired too tight. Midterms are over for you, right?”

Grantaire nods, digging through the clothes crushed into his gym bag for deodorant. “Just about.”

“Then it's time to let go.”

“You're the first person who's accused me of working too hard since freshman year,” Grantaire says.

“That's because no one knows you as well as I do.”

“Joly and Bossuet are with me literally all the time.”

“Yeah, but they're obsessed with each other,” Eponine says. “Anyway, their fields of study are more obviously difficult than yours. It's easy to dismiss people who paint for grades when you have to run regressions and read dense philosophy.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, brushing his teeth with the brush he leaves in her room. 

“Nobody knows that you slave away at the details on your paintings. Nobody knows how long it took you to get the lines of the Eiffel Tower _just_ right--”

“Yeah, and it still looked like shit.”

“Can you stop hating on your own work for five minutes?”

“I have to be honest with myself,” Grantaire says. “No sense in denying it. I don't want to be one of those deluded idiots who tries to pass themselves off as a legit artist when everyone knows they should be doing illustration work for children's books--”

“There's no shame in that,” Eponine says. “Children's books are fun.” 

She stands next to Grantaire, gazing into the mirror. She's already showered and has done what looks like about half her makeup, but she's still wearing just a bra and skinny jeans. She looks impossibly young just now, meeting Grantaire's reflections eyes and sighing.

“Do you think,” she starts, and then stops.

“Yeah, they'll probably both be there,” Grantaire says. “It's in _his_ suite, I mean--”

“But what if,” she says, and stops again.

“I don't know, Ep,” Grantaire says. “I mean—it's clear how they feel about each other, you know?”

She stares at herself in the mirror, not meeting Grantaire's eyes. “Yeah.”

“It's not really—I mean, it sucks, but it's not fair to expect anything else.”

“Yeah,” Eponine says.

“We don't have to go,” Grantaire says. “We can stay here and get drunk and paint each other's toenails. I can do those flowers you like.”

“I told you never to mention those again,” Eponine says. She picks up a makeup brush, buffs blush onto her cheeks. “We're going.”

“We could get high and watch Adventure Time,” Grantaire says. “Isn't that a better way to unwind than going to this stressful party with all these people we don't want to see?”

“Those people are your friends,” Eponine says. “Literally your only friends.”

“I barley know any of them.”

“You know that's bullshit.” Eponine does up the buttons of her blouse and examines herself in the mirror. “Joly, Bossuet, Cosette, and Jehan are your buddies. Enjolras is the hot asshole you'd love to hate fuck. Bahorel is your weed hook up cum stoner buddy. And you've spent literally all your free time with the rest of the ABC, so--”

“I don't really know Feuilly that well.”

“Then _get to know him_.”

“I don't know Combeferre that well either.”

“Combeferre told me he walked in on you getting your head shaved the other day and that you had a nice conversation.”

“What? How are you and Combeferre friends? You are literally opposites of each other.”

Eponine shrugs. “I am large. I befriend multitudes.”

“You are the least friendly person I've ever met.”

“We're going,” Eponine says, with an air of distinct finality. “You still have eyeliner on your face. Do you want makeup remover?”

“No, I'll rock it,” Grantaire says. “Warpaint, you know.” Plus it still hurts to touch around his eyes, and he'd rather keep them clean of whatever weird makeup oils Eponine has lying around.

“Right,” Eponine says. 

She looks at Grantaire, and Grantaire looks back.

“Put on a shirt and let's _go_ ,” she says impatiently, and Grantaire does.

“God, I'm so glad you're an RA now,” he says.

“Better than being homeless,” Eponine responds, and Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that, so he follows her out of her room in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know pretention isn't a word.
> 
> Jehan's references, in order:  
> The [myth](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Myth_of_Sisyphus) of [Sisyphus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sisyphus); Susan Sontag's [_Against Interpretation_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Against_Interpretation); a misquoting of an unsourced quote by Cousteau, the [correct wording of which](http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Talk:Jacques-Yves_Cousteau) changes the meaning quite a bit; and of course, Shakespeare's [_Hamlet_](http://nfs.sparknotes.com/hamlet/page_144.html).
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think.


	4. october, part three; or, two parties and a brunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it seems this month has rather gotten away from me
> 
> mentions of hard drugs in pretty vague terms in this chapter. no one actually does any.

The window to the fire escape in Marius and Courfeyrac's room is flung open, but it's still burning hot inside.

When they get there, Cosette is already talking to Marius, drinking out of a red cup and accepting the joint being passed around. Grantaire can barely look at her, the weight of his own failure hanging heavily over his head. 

“Vodka tonic for the lady?” Combeferre says, appearing before them almost immediately. He smiles at Eponine, holds out an arm. “You dance beautifully.”

“We danced horribly,” Eponine says, and takes both the arm and the drink. “Thank you.”

That's fair enough, Grantaire supposes. He can't be irritated: they're in a room full of their friends, and they've just demonstrated a complete lack of chemistry on the dancefloor. He doesn't want to hang out with himself, either. Or with Eponine.

Everyone is already drunk, it would seem. The room is dimly lit, the music loud, the bodies grinding together. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta are bumping against each other, and Grantaire _still_ isn't sure what's happening there and he's not sure he even wants to know, if he's being honest.

But the point is that everyone is already drunk, which means that everyone is much drunker than he is, which is unacceptable. He does two shots of Smirnoff and makes himself a vodka-coke.

There are some strangers at the party, and Grantaire is just deciding which one he wants to get off with when someone bumps his shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says back.

It's this kid from one of his core philosophy classes, Jack or Johnny or Jim or something. He's tall and has dark hair and he's smiling. He's filled out since freshman year. 

“How's it going?”

“Pretty good.” 

Jack or Johnny or Jim slings an arm around his shoulders. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka coke. You want some?”

“Was going to ask if you wanted to smoke.”

“What do you have?”

“I have [a magic box](http://www.vapecritic.com/vaporizers/launch-box/) and an eighth with your name on them.”

“Let's get in on that futon, then,” Grantaire says. “All packed?”

“Ready to go.”

Jack or Johnny or Jim presses the battery of the magic box, waits for the little compartment to fill with smoke, and offers the first hit to Grantaire.

Grantaire loves vapes, loves how easy the smoke goes down and how he's unlikely to get in trouble for it unless they drug test, which they won't for at least another couple of weeks. He loves how quickly the weed hits him this way, too, like it's in ultra-concentrated form, and he loves being just a little bit cross faded. 

Jim or Jack or Johnny does a hit, too, and then offers him the magic box again. 

The second hit goes down even smoother, almost like breathing. Grantaire turns down the third hit.

“Wanna dance?”

“Sure.” 

Jack or Jim or whatever follows him over to the central dancing area, the space Marius and Courfeyrac have cleared off several feet away from the desk with the drinks on it and the other desk with the speakers and Spotify on it.

It's so hot in their room, Grantaire thinks, and the alcohol isn't helping. Jimmy John is grinding against him, his hips roughly level with Grantaire's, and Grantaire can't say he's not into it. Jack is hot, the kind of hot usually reserved for celebrity athletes. Maybe that's what he is. Grantaire doesn't know anything about him. That should make this better. 

“Early in the night for this, isn't it?” Eponine hisses into his ear, passing by. 

“Don't cockblock,” he mumbles back, but she's alone with a drink in her hand and Combeferre is nowhere to be seen and Grantaire's pretty sure Cosette and Marius are the couple he sees kissing in the corner. Grantaire separates himself from Jim reluctantly. 

“What's wrong?” Jim asks.

“I'll be right back, okay?” Grantaire says. “Don't leave.”

“It's cool, my friends are over there.”

Grantaire flashes him a smile, catches sight of Enjolras glaring at him across the room, and goes to meet Eponine.

She's sulking in the corner, her phone in her hand.

“What's up?” Grantaire says, handing her a drink.

“Nothing,” she says. “I can't believe I'm letting this get to me.”

“I can't believe they're making out in front of you like that.”

“It's not their fault,” Eponine says. “Neither of them _know_ —well, Cosette does, but not _really_ —”

“What happened to Combeferre?”

“What? I don't know, he's sucking off his boyfriend or something.”

“His boyfriend?”

Eponine looks up at him. Her eyes look darker than usual. “I'm heading to another party.”

“Want me to come?”

“No, it's in Montparnasse's suite. You can if you want to, but it might be weird if we show up together.”

“For who?”

“Montparnasse, obviously.” Eponine slips her phone in her pocket. “He'd have to decide which of us he's in love with, which might be uncomfortable for one or all of us.”

“In love with?” Grantaire repeats.

Eponine laughs. It sounds mean, bitter. “Don't worry about it. We're both drunk.”

“I'm not drunk,” Grantaire says. “I've only had like three drinks.”

“And hella weed, don't think I wasn't watching you hog—”

“I wasn't _hogging_ , Johnny only offered it to me—”

“Do you mean Graham?”

“No, I mean—”

“The guy you were dancing with? He's on the swim team. Graham.”

“Oh.”

“He's hot,” Eponine says. “Too bad he's on his way out.”

“He's—what?”

Grantaire whirls around, watches Graham and his friends—people who must all be guy swimmers, judging by their physiques and the waves they throw at Eponine—leave the room. Graham winks at him, and Grantaire groans.

“He's so hot, too.”

“You can find him later,” Eponine says. “Text me for his number.” She finishes her drink. “I'm going to head out, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Swing by later, when this party gets boring.”

“Okay.” 

She looks so small huddled against the wall like that that Grantaire wants to hug her. It feels too saccharine a gesture, though, so he just kisses her cheek instead, squeezes her hand as she chugs the rest of her drink and leaves.

“Are you two fighting?” a voice asks from behind him.

Grantaire turns. He groans inwardly: if there's one thing he can't deal with right now, it's _more_ sexual frustration.

“Finished getting your blowjob?” he asks.

“What?” Enjolras shouts over the music.

“I said—” Grantaire starts, but he doesn't get the chance to finish because Enjolras is tugging him toward the drinks table.

“You dance well,” Enjolras says into his ear. He is drunk. Grantaire realizes that he's never seen Enjolras drunk, not really. Tipsy, maybe, off a drink and a half at the Musain, but drunk?

“You were watching,” Grantaire says. The thought sends a shiver up his spine. “I saw.”

“Not here,” Enjolras says, still directly into Grantaire's ear. “Here you were sloppy.” 

His breath is hot against Grantaire's neck. Grantaire can almost feel his tongue: the anticipation makes him tremble. 

“I need another drink,” he says loudly.

“So you and Graham are friends,” Enjolras says. 

His arm is wrapped possessively around Grantaire's waist, steering him toward the table, but he lets go once they get there to pour them both something.

“He was in my western lit class freshman year,” Grantaire says, relieved to be away from the heat of Enjolras's skin at last. Even the hot air in Courfeyrac and Marius's bedroom feels better than the stifling want in his belly at the feel of Enjolras.

“So no.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Could you really not tell what was happening?”

“But Eponine stopped you.”

Grantaire shrugs again. “She needed a friend.”

“I thought you two were together when you first joined the ABC.”

“A lot of people make that mistake.”

“You make a great team.” Enjolras isn't looking at him, too focused on refilling Grantaire's solo cup.

“How would you know?”

“The way you danced—”

“We danced horribly.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Before you missed the leaps and catches and throws. You move in sync. You can tell you really care about each other. You move like twins, almost, except that you don't look alike.”

“You'd be awful at art analysis.”

“I wanted to take an art history class this semester, but Jehan said the same thing.” 

“Jehan would,” Grantaire says, grinning.

Enjolras smiles: It looks more familiar on his mouth than Grantaire had expected it to, and that makes Grantaire feel—he's not sure, exactly. Who is this strange version of Enjolras who talks to people outside of meetings and apparently does it like a normal person? What is Enjolras like outside of argument mode? He's always so tightly strung that it makes Grantaire wonder if maybe he wasn't hugged enough growing up. He seems like his parents are genius doctors or something who never spent enough time with their kid but still wanted him to get straight A pluses in school. The thought makes so much about Enjolras make sense that Grantaire reaches out, squeezes Enjolras's shoulder.

“What was that for?” Enjolras asks, but his smile doesn't disappear. 

“I don't know,” Grantaire says. “Dance with me.”

He feels light, light in his body and light in his head, the way you can only feel after the perfect combination of weed and alcohol. He feels proud of himself for getting it right.

Enjolras must feel similar, because he laughs, pulls Grantaire by the wrist and leads him to the makeshift dancefloor.

It gets too loud for them to hear each other almost immediately, but Enjolras makes it work anyway, wraps his arm around Grantaire's waist from behind and pulls him close with both hands.

“You cut your hair,” Enjolras says, his breath tickling the newly bare spot on the back of Grantaire's neck.

“I did.”

“Was that because of me?”

“What?”

Enjolras doesn't say anything for a moment. They're not really grinding, just swaying back and forth pressed together, and Grantaire can't have that, not when he's this close to Enjolras for the first time, not when he and Graham got interrupted, not when he wants this _so_ bad—

He rotates his hips a little against Enjolras's crotch, and Enjolras hums appreciatively. The sound makes the back of Grantaire's neck tingle.

“I'll take that as a no,” Enjolras says. “You know, when you cut it so soon after, I thought it was my fault, but I guess not.”

“I seriously have no idea what you're talking about,” Grantaire says.

“What?” Enjolras says, in that loud party voice that says he genuinely can't hear Grantaire. 

Grantaire whirls around so that they're chest-to-chest. Enjolras makes a little gasping sound. 

“I said I seriously have no idea what you're talking about,” Grantaire says. “Don't you have a boyfriend?”

“What?” Enjolras says, surprised this time. “No—”

“So what's Combeferre to you?”

Enjolras laughs. He sounds delighted. “He's my best friend.”

“Oh.” Grantaire is mildly surprised, both at the statement and at the relief flooding into his belly. He _likes_ Combeferre, and it'd feel kind of shitty if he slept with his boyfriend out of sheer uncontrollable sex drive. 

“You're not dating Graham, are you?”

So Enjolras has the same intentions as Grantaire. That's good to know. 

“Absolutely not.”

“You should,” Enjolras says.

Okay. Maybe not. Maybe Enjolras was just making small talk.

“Why's that?” 

Grantaire turns back around so that he can go back to things he knows how to do, like dance and turn guys on and get himself laid. He's not sure why he wants to sleep with Enjolras so badly, only that he _does_. The man is just so _irritating_ , and Grantaire doesn't know why but that really gets him going—

“I don't know. You look like you could use a boyfriend.”

“Are you hitting on me, dear leader?”

“What?” 

Enjolras can't hear again. Maybe that's for the best. Grantaire unravels himself from Enjolras's arms, which have become suspiciously tightly wound. 

“You want to go out for a cigarette?” Grantaire says. “I hear there's great roof access in this building.” 

In reality, he only knows this because Montparnasse lives here and had a party a few weeks ago. He doesn't say that, though, just grins when Enjolras nods and follows him out the window, onto the fire escape, and up the stairs to the roof.

Grantaire does actually light a cigarette. He can't really believe that this is happening, that he's drinking and smoking and dancing very, very intimately with Enjolras, who is drunk but not _wasted_ , still enough in his right mind that he's making solid decisions, Grantaire is pretty sure—

He wants to kiss Enjolras, but Enjolras isn't facing him. He's looking out at campus and the Hudson River beyond it, swaying slightly to the sounds of music thundering through Marius and Courfeyrac's ceiling and windows. 

“Fuck, I really love this city, you know?” Enjolras says.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says.

“Never want to leave.”

“Where are you from?”

“Upper East Side.”

“Really?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras shrugs, tugs Grantaire's cigarette out of his hands, takes a long drag. Grantaire swears he feels his cock twitch just at that because holy _shit_ —

“Dance with me,” Enjolras says, dropping the remains of the cigarette over the edge of the building, and Grantaire does, pulling Enjolras in by his hips, face-to-face this time. 

He expects Enjolras to take his shoulders or something, but instead Enjolras cups a hand around the back of Grantaire's neck, brushes his fingers against the shaved spot on the nape of his neck, and mostly just continues swaying. 

Grantaire pulls him closer, and Enjolras reacts by digging his fingers into the hair at the base of Grantaire's skull, right where the undercut stops and the dark curls start. His eyes are boring into Grantaire's, and even in the dark Grantaire can tell that his pupils are blown. He feels like he's right on the cusp of something amazing, like if he pushes _just_ enough he'll be there—

 _He's going to do it,_ Grantaire thinks, as Enjolras's other hand moves up to caress the side of his face. _He's going to fucking kiss me. I can't believe it, he's going to do it, holy shit._

Enjolras's hand moves to the side of Grantaire's face, stroking his earlobe briefly before moving on to his almost totally healed black eye.

“You're wearing eyeliner,” Enjolras says. His voice is hoarse. His thumb is brushing against the bottom of Grantaire's tear trough.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. 

_Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy—_

“Grantaire! Are you up here?”

Enjolras springs away from him as if burned, and Grantaire has never hated anyone as much as he hates Marius in that moment.

“You need to come down—Bossuet hurt himself and Joly is throwing up—we think Bossuet might have to go to the emergency room, only we're all too drunk to take him—”

“What makes you think I'm not?” Grantaire says, but he turns away from Enjolras, pushing past Marius to clamber back down the stairs to the fire escape outside Marius's window. He's still so drunk that the movements feel wrong to him, and he's down the stairs before he even realizes what he's doing.

“You're a better drunk than we are,” Marius says from behind him. “And—well—your building is close to the hospital—”

“So is Enjolras's,” Grantaire says. 

“We don't know where—” Marius says, and then his eyes widen as he catches sight of Enjolras, following them down the stairs at last. “Oh,” Marius says. “Oh—sorry, did I interrupt—”

“You didn't interrupt anything,” Enjolras says. His voice is back to normal, and he actually smiles at Marius. “I'm just a little drunk, and I'm going home.”

“You can walk to the ER with them,” Marius suggests. “Bossuet's pretty trashed.”

“We'll get by just fine,” Grantaire says. 

“Good night, Grantaire,” Enjolras calls after him, staying put on the fire escape and lighting what looks suspiciously like his own cigarette.

“Good night, Apollo,” Grantaire replies.

The party has devolved even further when Grantaire gets inside.

Cosette is chatting with Courfeyrac animatedly, but when she sees Marius, returns to him, and they kiss drunkenly, pressed up against the desk with the laptop and speakers on it. 

Eponine is still nowhere to be found.

There are more strangers at the party now, and one of them is Montparnasse, who winks and squeezes Grantaire's ass as he passes.

“Party in my suite,” he says. “Come through.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Eponine said there was alcohol.” 

He's inspecting the bottles, and Grantaire doesn't have time for this. He's still semi-hard, and if he stays he's not sure he won't try to seduce Montparnasse, and he's already struck out with two dudes tonight so it might be time to move on to other pastures.

Joly is clutching a trashcan to him in the bathroom, Musichetta patting his shoulder with one hand and throwing back shots with the other. Bossuet is curled up on the floor beside both of them, groaning.

“We're leaving,” Grantaire says. “Joly, are you going to vomit? Because I can't stop public safety from calling EMS on you if you do it outside—”

“I don't need to go to the hospital,” Joly says. “Just walk me to my room—”

“I'll get Marius,” Grantaire says, because Musichetta is definitely too drunk to do what he needs her to.

He gives Marius strict instructions about what to do with Joly when he gets him home. Then he walks Bossuet to the hospital and helps him check in. Then—and only then—he texts Montparnasse to see what's up.

What's up is, according to Montparnasse, a party featuring some hard drugs and hot girls. 

_come thru_ , Montparnasse says again, and Grantaire, feeling suddenly much too sober, does.

*

Grantaire wakes up hungover with an unfamiliar body in his bed. It is not Montparnasse, who he's pretty sure went home with Eponine last night, and it is not Enjolras, who he's pretty sure wouldn't go home with him if it was a choice between Grantaire and Josef Stalin's cremated remains even if he _was_ oddly friendly last night.

“I'm not sure Stalin _was_ cremated,” the girl next to Grantaire says. 

She's pretty enough, though her makeup is smudged down her face and her hair forms a giant nest at the top of her head. 

“Did I wake you?” Grantaire asks, hopping into the nearest pair of pants. “Sorry—”

“It's fine.” She sits up, looks around for her clothing. “I had a good time last night.”

“Me too,” Grantaire says. 

He's pretty sure he did, even though he can't remember this girl's name. He's pretty sure they met at Montparnasse's party, which he's pretty sure had had all the hard drugs Montparnasse promised—not that Grantaire can do any considering boxing season's about to start and most of them stay in your system a lot longer than weed and get you punished much more harshly if they're discovered—and featured all of Montparnasse's sketchy newspaper friends, including the weirdo with the masks and the one they're all pretty sure is too old to be hanging out with them.

“Can I interest you in a bagel?” Grantaire offers. “I have to take some breakfast to my friend at the hospital, so—”

“That's okay,” the girl says. She pulls her dress on over her head. “Can I just borrow a sweater or something?”

Grantaire gives her one of his boxing ones, hopes absently that she'll give it back to him at some point, and passes her the shoe she's looking around for. 

“Thanks,” she says. “Walk me out?”

Grantaire shoves his own feet into running shoes before wrapping himself in yet another boxing sweatshirt. 

“Let's go,” he says.

He walks her out of the building and stops at a food cart on the way to the hospital for two coffees and two bagels, then walks up to Bossuet's room in the hospital.

“Morning, boxing champion,” Grantaire says.

“Don't,” Bossuet says. “Seriously, I thought I wasn't going to get to compete all season—”

His arm is in a sling tied tightly to his body. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“It's just a sprain. Doctor says it'll be good to go in three weeks, and I'm going to see if I can't get Coach to … bend the rules, a bit.”

“Is that safe?”

“Who cares?” Bossuet shifts in his bed. “You have coffee?”

“I figured you'd be hungover.”

“You figured right.” He takes the proffered cup in his uninjured hand, drinks deeply. “Is that food in your other hand, or—”

“I brought bagels, too.”

“You're a lifesaver. Seriously, thank you so much for bringing me down here yesterday, no one else could get it together long enough—”

“It's fine,” Grantaire says. “After abandoning you here, I went to another party, so.”

“I was out cold,” Bossuet says. “You served me right.”

“Indeed I did.” 

“How was Joly?”

“I had Marius put him in bed on his side and leave water with him.”

“You think Marius did all that?”

“I had him send me pictures.”

“Good man,” Bossuet says, grinning. 

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire leans back in his chair. “After all the times you two made sure I didn't choke on my vomit? Least I could do.”

“Still,” Bossuet says stubbornly. “Still.”

They hang out in the hospital for a couple more hours, watching soccer on the little TV positioned across from Bossuet's bed, before the doctor comes in to dismiss Bossuet.

“Good to see you again,” the doctor says.

“You too,” Bossuet responds, and Grantaire can't stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“I like that you're a regular at the hospital the same way I'm a regular at the liquor store.”

“I don't even have to tell them my birthdate anymore,” Bossuet says proudly. “Let's go wake Joly up and get brunch.”

“I doubt he's going to want to eat anything for a couple of days.”

“He can have some toast and tea and Gatorade.” Bossuet is strangely merry for someone who's just come out of the hospital. “Come on, R, what else do you have to do?”

The rest of the night before hits Grantaire immediately, complete with the sickening feeling of having thoroughly fucked up. First there was the disastrous competition, and then there was the disastrous not-quite hookup with Enjolras, who is sure to think of him as some odd predatory weirdo or _something_ , and then there was trying to sleep with Montparnasse who was trying to sleep with Eponine, and then there was hooking up with that nice girl whose name he doesn't even remember, and fuck but Grantaire's head _hurts_.

“Watch reality TV alone in my bed,” Grantaire admits.

“Absolutely not,” Bossuet says. “We're getting brunch. I just texted Musichetta.”

“I don't want to hang out with you two and your girlfriend,” Grantaire complains. “It's so _weird_ , I hate being a _fourth_ wheel—”

“You're going to have fun,” Bossuet says. “Okay? Now shut up and open the door for me, I'm injured.”

He hands his key to Grantaire and sips from his coffee with his uninjured hand, blinking innocently. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“ _Fine_ ,” Grantaire says. “But just because I'm going, doesn't mean I have to socialize.”

“That is literally, word for word, _exactly_ what it means,” Bossuet says cheerfully. “Knock on Joly's door, please.”

“I told Marius not to lock it.”

“Knock anyway.”

Grantaire does, and out comes Joly, pressing a hand against his head. He looks odd without glasses on, younger and older at the same time. It's a jarring image either way, and Grantaire has to blink a few times before he's accustomed to it.

“What?” Joly, always charming in the morning, says.

“We both owe Grantaire breakfast. We interrupted his hook up or something, so—”

“You didn't interrupt anything,” Grantaire says, feeling his face heat up. “Wait, is that what people are saying? Is that why you've been giggling at your phone all morning?”

Joly looks at the phone on his desk next to his ID, room key, and credit card. Grantaire looks, too, and even now it continues to vibrate.

“We have a group message,” Bossuet admits.

“Who's 'we'?”

“You know, just—some of us,” Bossuet says, watching as Grantaire snatches Joly's phone. 

There are no previews of the texts, though a quick scroll tells him that Cosette, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre are all included in it. The phone vibrates again: Jehan.

“Incredible,” Grantaire says.

“It's really not,” Joly says.

“How would you know?” Grantaire says. “Wait, has this been going on for long?”

“Uh—” Joly says, and then, almost despite himself, giggles.

“Oh, Jesus, guys—”

“It's nothing, you know, we just sometimes have to plan around the sexual tension.”

“So you don't invite Cosette, Eponine, or Marius to stuff because of sexual tension either, right?”

“That situation is just weird,” Bossuet says. “It's not, like, irritating to the point of discomfort—”

“ _You're_ irritating to the point of discomfort!”

“That's mean.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire says. “I mean, Jesus—” 

But he has to laugh, because of _course_ they have to plan around him and Enjolras. Enjolras _hates_ him, never misses the chance to make it clear. It must get annoying for everyone else just like it gets annoying for Grantaire.

“Hey, R—it's just a joke, we don't—” Joly is staring at him, which is fair because Grantaire is laughing pretty maniacally right about now. “Like, did something happen? Did you hook up? Did you fight? Wait, did you _fuck_?”

“No,” Grantaire says. “Sorry, I just—Jesus, Enjolras really is the worst, isn't he?”

“Uh—when it comes to you, kind of, yeah,” Bossuet says, smiling tentatively.

“He's not _so_ bad,” Joly says. “It's just you that he's weird about.”

Grantaire groans. “It's because when we met I told him he was an irritating rich snob.”

“Oh, he's _that_ guy?” Bossuet says, and Joly bursts into laughter and then abruptly stops, holding a hand to his head.

“Yeah, fuck, he totally hates me.”

“This is cool and all, but I need bacon,” Joly says. “Please. I know it's bad for me, but if I don't get some in my system right now my brain is literally going to rupture.”

“We came to collect you for brunch,” Bossuet says. “Musichetta is meeting us, so—”

“I have to work on my brunch look,” Joly says, but at a look from Bossuet sighs. “Fine, let me just brush my teeth.”

“Come help me change my shirt after, too,” Bossuet says. “I'd ask Grantaire, but, you know, you're here, so—”

“You two are so gross when you act like a couple,” Grantaire says.

“We're not a _couple_ ,” Joly says. “We're—”

“Right, I get it, just go brush your teeth so we can eat, please.”

“I'm _going_ , Jesus,” Joly says, and disappears into the bathroom.

“How's everyone else doing?” Bossuet says.

“You tell me,” Grantaire says. “I'm not a part of that massive text.”

“Mostly I mean Enjolras.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “I don't know.”

“Why don't you _text him_?” Joly shouts from the bathroom.

“Brush your fucking teeth!” Bossuet shouts back.

“Don't order me around!”

“You know you like it!”

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire says. “Fine, I'll text him.”

“Just ask him how he's doing.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. “I think I can figure out a text.”

He does text Enjolras, but it takes him until they're already seated at brunch, being poured liberal cups of coffee.

“I really want a mimosa,” Musichetta says. “Grantaire, you interested? I don't want to be the only one drinking.”

“That's never been a problem for me,” Grantaire says, smiling graciously. “I'll have a bloody Mary.”

“Text Enjolras,” Bossuet says, for what might be the hundredth time.

“ _Fine_ ,” Grantaire says.

The text, when he finally sends it, is short and sweet: _hungover?_

Enjolras's reply is almost immediate:

_yes, very_

then: _sorry about last night_

then: _it was a mistake_

then: _it won't happen again._

Grantaire groans into his eggs, and Bossuet pats his shoulder consolingly.

“I'd offer you some bacon, but I'm pretty sure you keep halal.”

Grantaire takes a hearty sip of his alcoholic beverage. “You know me too well.”

*

African Civ with Cosette is torture.

“What happened Friday night?” she asks, all faux-conversational as they walk out of the classroom.

“I could ask you the same question.”

It's a good distraction: she positively beams, flushes, starts babbling about Marius. 

“It was after you left, you know, we'd just tucked Joly in and Marius was like, 'Cosette, I just want you to know that I really like you and I think we should date,' and then he went to kiss me but he was like, 'Wait, I don't want it to be like this,' and I was like, 'Oh, shut up, you idiot,' cause we'd already been making out all night and then we made out for like another hour. We passed out on his bed and it was very uncomfortable, but it was so lovely to wake up to his face.” 

She sighs, actually sighs, like some lovesick puppy. They sit together at their usual late lunch spot, and Cosette sighs.

If she's this bad, Grantaire thinks, Marius is going to be insufferable.

“That's sweet,” Grantaire says.

“I know it is,” Cosette says. “Now. Tell me: how did you fuck up a routine we practiced so many times, so badly?”

“I don't know,” Grantaire says. “We just did.”

“We can't afford another fuck up like that, R. We're not an official team, so if our teams are awful no one will want to dance against us and our coefficients will drop and we won't get to compete—”

“I _know_ ,” Grantaire says. “It was just a fuck up, okay?”

“No, _not_ okay. You were repeatedly late for practice throughout the semester because you were out drinking, and I was willing to overlook that, except in the moment of truth, _you got distracted._ ”

“I know,” Grantaire says. “I did.”

“By _what_? Midterms were over—Eponine was acting normal—”

“Eponine fucked up, too,” Grantaire says.

“I can't believe you're throwing your partner under the bus.”

“You aren't Simon Cowell. You're our captain. You should be disciplining both of us.”

“I already spoke to Eponine, and she took full responsibility.”

“Good, because _she_ was the one who saw Marius and tripped into my arms instead of leaping into them.”

“And _you_ were the one too busy trying to impress Enjolras to actually pay attention to your partner!”

Grantaire exhales through his teeth. “You're right.”

“I _know_.” Cosette stabs her salad more violently than is probably necessary. “I know I'm right.”

“I'm sorry. I'll do better next time.”

“It's like I said. We can't afford another fuck up like that.”

“You're not—I'm not _off the team_.”

“You two aren't dancing this Thursday.”

“But we've been _practicing_.” Grantaire half-rises out of his seat. “Cosette, I _need_ this—I'm good at like two things, and studying isn't one of them, but dance _is_.”

“We're going to let some freshmen get a competition under their belts.” Cosette, to her credit, looks apologetic. “Your sports seasons are about to start anyway.”

“What about Sunday's competition?” Grantaire asks. “What about the spring?”

“I think you need some rest,” Cosette says. She finishes the last bite of her salad. “It'll be good for you take a break this weekend.”

“I'm awful at taking breaks,” Grantaire says. “I'm just going to smoke weed and drink and jack off. You know that, Cos, you know I need stuff to do— _Cosette_.”

“Stop making this something it isn't, Grantaire.”

“I'm not—”

“This isn't me calling an end to our friendship. This is me, as the _captain_ , telling you that I think you're too burnt out to keep dancing. There's only a week left until you have to stop anyway, so why not make it an early cut off?”

“Are you kicking Eponine off the team too?”

“You're not kicked off,” Cosette says patiently. “You're just not competing this weekend. You'll be back in competitions after the boxing season. I'll still see you for meals after African Civ and ABC stuff. Please don't take this as anything other than a captain making a difficult decision for the benefit of her team.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says, standing up. “Sorry, Cap. I'll do better next time.”

“See you tonight,” Cosette calls, and Grantaire sighs.

“See you tonight,” he says. 

Cosette smiles.

*

They're supposed to be working on oil portraits in his painting class alongside their projects, but Grantaire can't get the image of Enjolras as the archangel Michael out of his head.

“That looks oddly similar to someone we know,” Jehan observes, standing behind him.

“I don't know how to change it,” Grantaire says. “It works, though, doesn't it?”

“Nice work, Grantaire,” his painting instructor says from behind him. “Your portraiture has been far superior to your landscape of late.”

“Uh—thanks?”

“It isn't a compliment. Your painting of the Paris skyline was close to masterful. That means you've regressed. Work harder.”

“Harsh,” Jehan says when the instructor leaves. “But if you have no critics you'll likely have no success, right?”

“If one more art teacher tells me the best thing I've ever done is that awful painting of Paris, I swear I'm going to start sticking knives through my canvas.”

“That could be interesting,” Jehan says. “A physical fight against whatever art represents—the artist's demons, art in general, consumer culture, representation as a means instead of art as an end in itself—”

“Can you stop making my art Kantian?” Grantaire says. “Most of it is meaningless trash, so.”

“Can you stop saying that about your work?” Jehan retorts. “Most art is meaningless trash. That doesn't mean it's not worth making. Jesus Christ, stop being so hard on yourself and fucking paint something.”

“I just did, and you told me it looks like Enjolras.”

“It _does_. That's not a critique, it's just an observation. I'm not sure what else you want me to do.”

“I don't want you to _do_ anything,” Grantaire says.

“Grantaire—”

“I'm sorry, I just—”

“No, it's fine,” Jehan says, his tone very clipped. 

He returns to his own canvas and does not look back at Grantaire.

They do not paint together that evening.

*

It would appear, Grantaire thinks through a cloud of exhaustion and several pre-meeting shots, that Marius is even more excited than Cosette that they're together now.

The boy practically floats into the ABC meeting, a wide smile plastered on his freckled face, and greets them all in delighted lovesick splendor. 

“We heard you got laid, bro,” Bahorel says. “Congrats!”

“It's more than _laid_ , Bahorel,” Courfeyrac says, all false indignation. “It's _loved_. He got _loved_.”

“It's every lonely student's dream,” Jehan says. 

He's a few seats away from his usual seat beside Grantaire, beside Marius and Courfeyrac's empty chair, which for some reason makes Grantaire feel irrationally irritated.

Courfeyrac only coughs delicately in response.

“How charming,” Eponine says. 

She's sitting next to Grantaire, both her hands balled into fists under the table. It's the first time he's seen her since their disastrous dance competition and the two shitty parties that followed, and she looks very much the worse for wear. Her eyeliner is even heavier than usual, and past experience tells him that means she's trying to compensate for not sleeping enough. Montparnasse has been difficult to reach, which Grantaire knows because he's been trying to do exactly what Eponine has apparently been succeeding at doing. 

“Can we start?” Enjolras says.

Grantaire looks at him. Enjolras looks tired, too, dark circles even more pronounced than usual. Somehow this weakness makes Grantaire irrationally angry. 

“Can we not all be happy that Marius has finally found someone to love?” Grantaire says. Eponine casts him a surprised look. “After all, God knows the rest of us are lonely fucks. _Someone_ might as well have some joy in their life.”

Enjolras's eyes are boring into his. Grantaire looks pointedly away. 

“We don't have time for this,” Enjolras says.

“What have you against love, noble Apollo?” Grantaire says. “Maybe you're just lonely. Joyce says that love loves to love love—it follows that hate hates to love love, does it not?”

“I don't have anything—this just isn't—I haven't read any Joyce—” Enjolras starts, but Cosette's entrance—she sits on Grantaire's other side, which makes him feel more than a little claustrophobic—means that he has to shut up. 

“Alas,” Grantaire says, slumping back down against his arms. “It seems lovely Apollo cares not for literature.”

“You know he cares not for literature,” Eponine says. “He cares for social justice.”

“How cruel,” Grantaire says. “His veins are full of ice water and mine are boiling.”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras says, but Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Are you drunk?” Eponine demands, as more people enter the meeting room.

“Why bother with sobriety?”

“Why do you come if you don't give a shit?” Eponine asks, voice dangerously low. 

Their conversation is lost in the din of the ABC entering, but Grantaire feels rough around the edges anyway, angry. 

“Don't, Ep,” he says. “ _You_ only joined because of—”

“That's bullshit,” she hisses. “I joined because Enjolras asked me to. Courfeyrac dragged _him_ in afterward.”

“ _Enjolras_ asked you to?”

“We—” Eponine says. “Jesus, R—‑”

“Right, then,” Courfeyrac calls from the front, ending their conversation. He smiles, and it changes his entire face. “Let's get started.”

Grantaire sets his head on his arms to listen, and promptly falls asleep.

*

With Bossuet out of boxing practice, dance basically over since he has no need to practice, and Jehan painting alone more often than not, Grantaire's world shrinks further.

Pretty much the only person he sees who isn't in the ABC or on his boxing team is Montparnasse, and even that's gotten more rare. As a result, Montparnasse is both Grantaire's entire extracurricular activity and his entire social life outside of his sport.

“How's your cursive?” Montparnasse asks, tracing his fingers lazily around the words tattooed on the right side of Grantaire's ribcage. “Did you write this out yourself?”

“It's okay,” Grantaire says. “But no, another art student wrote that. I was iffy about the German. Why?”

“I'm thinking of getting Fall Out Boy lyrics tattooed on myself.”

“No shit, really?” Grantaire almost laughs. “Dude, sometimes you are such an emo kid I'm surprised you don't have the haircut.”

“I used to,” Montparnasse says. “My hair was black and I had snakebites. It was hot.”

“It sounds hot.” Grantaire pushes up to kiss him. “I wanted the cut, but my hair could never do it.”

“Luckily it's perfect for the current on-trend alt cut.”

“Don't mock the man bun, dude.”

“It's hot,” Montparnasse says, running his fingers over the back of Grantaire's scalp, where it's not quite bare. He kisses Grantaire back, swigs from the bottle of white wine they've been sharing.

“I know.”

Grantaire reaches for Montparnasse's bulge, but Montparnasse pulls away.

“No time,” he says, sitting up. “Sorry—I've got a cappella practice.”

“I like that you're secretly just, like, so collegiate,” Grantiare says. “Newspaper. A cappella. You have the resume of an overachiever.”

“That's because I _am_ an overachiever.”

“Except for the part where you run a black market of designer clothing and hard drugs.”

Montparnasse shrugs. “That's part of the overachieving. You ever tried working off campus twenty hours a week, running a newspaper, and singing for fun on top of a full course load? Not to mention _two_ casual fuck buddies and a body that needs a delicate balance of kale and cardio?”

Grantaire snorts. “Fair enough.” 

“Speaking of which, I'm not sure what you said to Eponine, but she's super pissed at you.”

“I didn't say anything to Eponine.”

“Maybe that's the problem.”

“Stop trying to be wise, dude, it doesn't work for you.”

“Don't be an asshole just 'cause I'm trying to be a good friend.”

 _You're not my friend_ , Grantaire almost says. It's the kind of thing he'd usually say without thinking, but he's fond of Montparnasse, likes how he's always there and never expects anything of him. Maybe that's why he's feeling irritated now.

“Have fun at show choir,” Grantaire says instead, and Montparnasse rolls his eyes and leaves.

*

Midterms are over, but boxing has just about taken over Grantaire's life. Other than boxing, mostly he paints, applies to internships for the summer, works at the library, works on his graphic design portfolio, designs flyers for the ABC. The BSO commissions him, too, gets him to make posters for the upcoming rally. It's nice, he supposes, that he spends all his time making art and working out.

That doesn't mean, though, that he can't get absolutely trashed Thursday through Saturday nights. He takes full advantage of this loophole.

He runs into Eponine at Tall Boys one Friday night. She's standing near the bar with her hip artsy friends, sipping a half-priced beer he's sure she didn't buy for herself. Montparnasse is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, R,” she shouts over the music.

“Hey, Ep,” he shouts back.

She stares at him. They haven't spoken much for the last couple of weeks, and Grantaire isn't sure why except that they always start to get snippy with each other around this time of year. The end of dance season and the beginning of their respective sports comes as a relief for both of them every November, making them happy for the break from one another. It's only gotten worse since they've both been kicked off the dance team but still have to see each other for the ABC.

“Sorry about the Marius thing a few weeks ago,” Grantaire says.

“It's whatever,” Eponine says, but she visibly relaxes. “What're you drinking?”

“Jameson and ginger.”

“Fancy,” Eponine says, ordering two. 

She follows him up onto the roof of the bar, which is hardly less loud than the inside. At least the air here is fresh, though, and when Grantaire craves one he lights a cigarette.

They both stare at it, Eponine not even reaching for a drag.

“Too close to swim season,” she says. “Those things fuck me up.”

“Me too,” Grantaire says. He twirls the cigarette between his fingers anyway. “How's Montparnasse?”

Eponine shrugs. “Do you ever feel bad that we exclusively use him to deal with stress? He's like a human vibrator.”

“I wouldn't put it that way.”

“Yeah, because you wouldn't think about it at all.” Eponine takes a sip of her drink, looking out at the city beyond them and not at Grantaire. “Do you ever wonder how _he_ feels about it?”

“He doesn't give a shit,” Grantaire says. “If he did, he'd say something.”

“Probably.” 

They're both silent for a while, drinking and staring over the ledge. They have a good view of the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond it, the buildings tall but not tall enough, lights bright but not bright enough.

“New Jersey is such a shithole,” Eponine says. 

“I know,” Grantaire says.

“How did you ever grow up there?”

“I came here as often as possible.”

“You know New York better than I do,” Eponine admits. “Or Montparnasse, or Enjolras.”

“Is Enjolras from here?”

“Are you serious? You've never heard of the Enjolras building?”

“The what?”

“His family's, like, ancient East Coast money. We were in school together for a while.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “I didn't know that. Probably should've guessed.”

“He hides it well.”

“He really doesn't.”

“You didn't figure it out.”

“I was distracted.”

“Yeah, by his luscious blond locks and crystal blue eyes and alabaster skin—”

“Have you been reading my diary again?”

“Just scoping your paintings,” Eponine says. She's smiling now, which makes for a nice change. “Not hard to find yours, considering all of them are of blond men lately.”

“We're doing portraits right now.”

“That's what Combeferre said,” Eponine says. “But it's not like all of Jehan's paintings are of the same person, so—”

“How much do you all talk about me?” 

“Not that much,” Eponine says. “It's more the Grantaire-Enjolras dynamic that we discuss.”

“You're in that group text too?”

“I started it.”

“Bullshit. Courfeyrac started it.”

“Did he say that? Asshole.” 

The cigarette, now barely an inch and a half long, singes Grantaire's fingers. He gives a little yelp and drops it, watches it fall and burn out on the ground.

“You should congratulate yourself on not even having one drag,” Eponine says. “I'm proud.”

“Grantaire one, nicotine zero,” Grantaire says. “Fuck, I really want one, though.”

“Me too.” Eponine turns around so that she's leaning on the fence instead of over it. “What happened with you two at that party anyway?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire says. “Or—I don't know. We were dancing on the roof and I was _so_ sure something was going to happen, but then Marius interrupted us and now it's all weird.”

“Marius does make things weird,” Eponine agrees. “Sorry—I don't mean to monopolize your problems, but—”

“No, yours is much more serious than mine. We need to find you a non-fuckboy, non-taken, non-drug-dealing-copy-editing-a-capella-singing-thief to complete you.”

“I don't need a man to complete me. I'd just like the one to be single and not fucking _blind_.” She drains the rest of her beverage. “What are you up to tonight?”

“I was with some boxing friends but I bailed on them once they started picking up girls.” Grantaire shudders. “Nothing worse than drunk athletes in a sports bar.”

“You going to the ABC Halloween fundraiser party thingy tomorrow?”

“I guess I have to,” Grantaire says. “What are you going as?”

“Sarah from Orphan Black.”

Grantaire laughs. It sounds lighter than he expects, happy. The alcohol swimming in his belly feels warm.

“Does that involve changing your regular uniform at all?”

“I just have to mess up my hair a little. And I'm taking a rag doll and calling it Kira.”

“It'd be funnier if you called it Helena.”

“Like, a little blonde rag doll with fucked up hair and sharpie roots—”

“And maybe, like, blood on its hands.”

“I should make her a fake little gun.” Eponine mimes one with her fingers, directing it first at Grantaire's head and then at her own.

“That might get you arrested.”

“It'd be funny, though.”

“The ABC could use you as a martyr.”

“Please. Enjolras would probably slaughter me if I took that spot.”

“Shit, he'd really love to be a martyr, wouldn't he?” Grantaire says, laughing again. “What a shithead. I can't believe we didn't even kiss that night.”

“Me neither,” Eponine says. “Everything was perfect, and you had to go and fuck it up.”

“Hey, _I_ didn't fuck anything up. _I_ was being a lovely gentleman looking to find a sweet hook up.”

“Enjolras doesn't really do that.”

“What? Gentlemen?”

“No. Hook up.”

“Like, at all?”

“He had a boyfriend in high school,” Eponine says. “That's about it. He doesn't sleep around. He doesn't really get it.”

“Sex?”

“Sex without emotional connection.”

“He doesn't get that it just feels good?”

Eponine shrugs. “It's not his thing.”

“Why didn't you tell me about it?”

“Well, you jumped down my throat the first time we talked after the party, so—”

“Fair enough.”

“What are _you_ doing?”

“What? Drinking with you, obviously.” Grantaire sighs. “He must think I'm this huge asshole slut who was trying to take advantage of him—”

“He doesn't think that,” Eponine says. “He probably just feels uncomfortable because he was going to hook up with you at a party and he's never really done that with anyone before.”

Grantaire stares out at the river sullenly. It looks pretty, he supposes, the New Jersey lights reflected on the dark dingy water. He's painted rivers before—the Seine, obviously, even tried some Monet imitations, but his professor hadn't liked those—but never this one, even though he's lived on one side or the other his entire life. “What an asshole.”

“That's not fair,” Eponine says. “Also, I meant what are you doing for Halloween.”

“I don't know. You think I can pull off Snape?”

“No, dude, it's like six years too late for a Harry Potter costume that isn't Harry Potter. You should be Superman.”

“Where am I going to find that much spandex in the next twenty-four hours?”

“Just go as Clark Kent. Wear a suit and glasses and slick back the hair.”

“Sounds easy.”

“Exactly.”

“Yo, R!” 

Both Grantaire and Eponine turn. It's Davy, the boxing captain, flagging Grantaire down.

“I've gotta go,” Grantaire says.

“I'll see you tomorrow night,” Eponine says.

“We're good though, right?”

“As long as I can still come to your parents' for Thanksgiving.”

“Of course.”

“And bring Gavroche.”

“I'd be insulted if you didn't.”

Eponine smiles, her perfect teeth glinting in the semi-darkness. Grantaire has the sudden impulse to paint her.

“Goodnight, Grantaire,” she says.

“Goodnight, Eponine,” he replies, and leaves.

*

The ABC Halloween party is in the event space in the Musain basement. It's dark down there, but relatively cool despite the amount of people shoved in.

It's difficult, Grantaire finds, to have fun. Part of him sort of wants to hang out and dance, but most of him wants to just stand on the edge of the dancefloor, drinking his whiskey and trying to decide whether or not he should text Montparnasse. Eponine looks especially good tonight, so Grantaire figures she's going to find someone else to hook up with—or, he thinks, noticing Cosette and Marius's racebent Barbie and Ken costume, just get upset and leave alone—and Montparnasse might be free.

“Nice costume.”

Grantaire looks away from Eponine, who is dancing with Musichetta, at Enjolras. He bursts into involuntary laughter.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. “You actually dressed like Apollo. I thought you hated that nickname.”

“I _do_ ,” Enjolras says. “I'm not Apollo. I'm _Ares_.”

“Ares was always nude, bro. I'm pretty sure the toga makes you Apollo.”

Enjolras actually laughs.

“Sorry I've been so weird,” he says. There's a drink in his hand, but he's barely sipping at it. “I swear I'm not usually like this with new people.”

“So I keep hearing.”

“Anyway,” Enjolras says. “A lot of people seem to really like you, and they can't all be wrong, right?”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. “That's very sweet.”

“Grantaire—”

“No, it is.” Grantaire finishes his drink. “I'm sure it's not easy for you to admit that you may occasionally be wrong about things.”

“It's not,” Enjolras. “It's not, I just—the other morning, when I saw you—”

“Look, talk to me sober, okay?”

“I _am_ sober—”

“Then talk to me in broad daylight. I get that you think I'm not smart enough to be in your genius club because I'm an affirmative action athlete, but that's not an excuse to be a dick to me.” 

“Grantaire, you have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Can you stop talking down to me for five minutes? I'm an artist, not an idiot.”

“Grantaire, you're drunk.”

“And you're an _asshole_ , Apollo.”

Enjolras's empty hand clenches into a fist. “Fine,” he says. “ _Fine_.”

He storms off to talk to Combeferre or something about how much of a dick Grantaire is, probably, but Grantaire is pretty sure he's in the right about this. He orders a shot at the bar and drinks it gloomily, then orders another because it's all going to charity anyway.

This is, Grantaire thinks toward the bottom of his seventh drink, the worst Halloween party ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's line on success & criticism is from Malcolm X, supposedly, but I can't find a legitimate source.
> 
> Grantaire's line on ice water & boiling is from _Wuthering Heights_.


	5. november; or, giving thanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warnings for this chapter: There's an anxiety attack described in pretty clear terms at one point in this chapter. It's the scene that starts with the recorder music. There's a lot of Xanax use this chapter. Everything after the bar scene at Thanksgiving features an in-depth description of depression. Also, warning for general bleakness. As usual, feel free to reach out for a summary of events that occur during scenes you don't want to read or that make you uncomfortable.
> 
> Also, I feel an apology is owed for the lateness of this chapter. I've been out of town / vacationing for the last week or so and this was the first time my computer was connected to internet long enough to post.

They don't wear gloves in practice most of the time. Most of the time they just tape their fingers and hit. It's unorthodox, Coach says, but it works.

“It'll bring you closer to the act,” Coach always says. “There's something purer about the hit. There's something more real about it when you can really feel it.”

Grantaire pounds at Bossuet's open palms now. Left. Right. Left. Right. Twist. Waste time. Distract. Jab. Hook. 

“Switch!” Coach calls, and they do, Bossuet tossing Grantaire his pads and hitting, going noticeably lighter with his still-injured arm.

“Are you sure you're okay to be doing this?”

“Yes,” Bossuet says firmly. 

In the weeks since he sprained his wrist, he's also needed stitches and come within inches of knocking out a tooth. Musichetta has started threatening to make him wear knee pads. Joly only nods in agreement.

“You look hungover, Bossuet!” Coach says. 

Bossuet's three blind mice whiskers from the Halloween party last night are still on his face. Grantaire remembers when he, Joly, and Bossuet went as the Three Musketeers. He supposes they could make Musichetta their D'Artagnan, but it feels forced.

“Switch!” Coach calls again.

Grantaire is sweating, but he's not out of breath yet. This feels good, feels right. His head throbs. He hits.

“Gear up!” Coach shouts. “Let's simulate a couple of real fights, team ...”

Grantaire puts in his mouth guard and straps on his gloves. It feels good to be fully geared up again, and he hops around a little, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He ignores his spinning vision, the way if he blinks too quickly he thinks there are two or three Bossuets instead of only one.

“Hooks, jabs, and grabs, that's it, don't get fancy. On my call, switch partners.”

Grantaire jabs, hooks, and grabs, twists Bossuet half behind him. But Bossuet is good at this too, manages a solid flip and then lands an actual punch that Grantaire fails to parry.

“Switch!” Coach calls. “Bossuet, sit this one out—”

“Coach—” Bossuet protests, but he stops a moment later, cradling his wrist against his chest.

“Bad luck, dude,” Grantaire says, clapping Bossuet on the back. “You'll be better soon.”

His next partner hooks, jabs, grabs, and parries. Grantaire breathes.

*

It's good, at least, to see Enjolras not glower at him.

He still stares—but it's different now, more like Grantaire is a math problem he's trying to figure out and less like he's trying to burn him off the face of the earth with the power of his eyes alone.

*

His Halloween hangover feels like it lasts all week, but that might be just because he's drinking almost every night.

Coach waits to point it out until the rest of the team's recovered from their respective Halloweens: “You look off your game, Grantaire.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Grantaire says, and hits harder.

*

They train with punching bags one morning.

There is something satisfying about hitting a bag until it bursts, even if it does make Coach send Grantaire to the weight room for the rest of the week.

“Discipline, Grantaire,” Coach says, and Grantaire nods.

*

Practice.

Class.

Library.

Studio.

ABC.

Bar.

Bed.

Repeat.

That's discipline.

*

“The Black Students Organization's People of Color rally is this Friday,” Enjolras is saying. “Many of our members are also members of the BSO—they'll be participating. Those of us who aren't people of color will be acting as allies: handing out flyers, generally surrounding the black students anywhere that public safety might be, et cetera. That goes double for those of us with more—uh— _known_ names.”

The Enjolras building, Grantaire has discovered, is a forty-story building in midtown, set among all the other skyscrapers in the region. It is home to Enjolras, Incorporated, which is a weapons development and sales company. It is also home to the biggest Pret a Manger in North America and a host of law firms and consulting agencies on its lower floors. 

For the most part, it is an indistinguishable building. That's why Grantaire has never been particularly interested in it: New York has at least a dozen gorgeous skyscrapers, and hundreds more beautiful buildings. There is no reason to pay much attention to a glass-and-steel rectangular prism contraption forty stories high when the Chrysler Building is just three blocks south and the Hearst Tower a few blocks north. 

“Let's do a final headcount,” Enjolras says. “Who is coming as an ally?”

Some people raise their hands, and Courfeyrac records the number.

“And as an actual affected individual?”

Others raise their hands—Cosette, Marius, Bahorel. Grantaire raises his, too, from his spot on the table tucked into his folded arms. 

“You'll need to be there _on time_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“When have I ever let you down, noble Apollo?”

“Stop calling me that.”

It's a tired argument by now, and Grantaire rolls his eyes. 

“What's wrong with Apollo?” Grantaire says. “You know what Neil Armstrong said about Apollo? He said that Apollo shows us that our visions go further than this planet, and that our opportunities are unlimited.”

“Wasn't he talking about the shuttle?” Courfeyrac asks. 

For Courfeyrac, this is all in good fun. Grantaire feels suddenly even more tired. His arms are sore from working out too hard last practice, and he has a melee of bruises blooming across his upper body.

“Who says I'm not?” Grantaire says.

“Right,” Combeferre says briskly. It never fails to surprise Grantaire, how quickly Combeferre can switch from fun, relaxed, low key Combeferre to type A, high-strung, time-to-work Combeferre. “So it starts at two o' clock. Allies'll be meeting here beforehand to pick up fliers. The rest of us will be at the BSO's usual meeting space to prep. Be there at one. Dress comfortably in all-black.”

They move on to the ABC's own rally at the end of finals week, and Grantaire huddles his head in his arms. Combeferre's voice is soothing, and he soon falls asleep.

*

There is loud and mournful recorder coming from the studio next to Grantaire's. It's screechy and distracting, like all recorder music, and Grantaire glares at the wall disdainfully. He picks up his phone to pick a playlist to blast in return, and sees that Montparnasse has texted him.

 _haven't seen u in a while—u around now?_

_no, sorry—library + studio all night_ , Grantaire replies.

*

His painting professor's email had a degree of urgency to it:

_Mr. Grantaire,_

_Stop by my office hours today if you can. Want to discuss your painting._

So Grantaire is there now, sitting across his professor with hands folded on his lap. He wishes he had some kind of beverage—alcohol, or coffee. Anything would be better than these empty hands.

“I've been hard on you this semester,” his professor says. “But I want you to know that it's because I think you have great potential. I want to see you make the most of that.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says.

“I saw your Seine when I was in Paris for a conference last week, and I thought it was masterful.”

“All my paintings from Paris were awful,” Grantaire says. “I wanted to trash all of them, but Professor Klein insisted on keeping them for his student work display.”

“So you think you can do better?”

“I don't know,” Grantaire says. “That's the problem.”

“You're unsure of yourself.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I guess. The only art I've made that anyone's ever liked has been that garbage from Paris.”

“Maybe it's the best art you've ever made, but not the best art you know you can make. Maybe the praise is what upsets you.”

“Maybe.”

“I asked you to come here because I want to see what you make of the Hudson.”

“The Hudson, Professor?”

“Yes,” his professor says. He has a beard, and Grantaire can't tell if it's supposed to make him look more hip or more scholarly. It's scarce enough that it succeeds in doing neither. “I host an evening painting session every semester on the roof of my building. It overlooks the river quite beautifully. I'd like you to come to the next one.”

“Why--”

“I find your portraits quite grand, Grantaire. Grand, but understated.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Thank you.”

A pause. Something occurs to Grantaire.

“Is it just—uh--” 

His professor smiles. “There will be fellow B.A. students there, as well as MFA and doctoral candidates. It will not just be us.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Thanks, Professor.”

“I'll see you in class, Grantaire.”

Grantaire gets up to leave, and then changes his mind.

“Professor?”

“Hmm?”

“It's not the praise itself. It's that the praise is for something I think is subpar. It's—it's a waste.”

“Do you think that about the art? Or the artist?”

 _That doesn't make you sound deep_ , Grantaire wants to say. _It just makes you sound like a dick_.

He doesn't, though, only nods. “I'll see you in class.”

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight.”

*

Montparnasse is kneeling between Grantaire's legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses against Grantaire's neck while Grantaire clutches at Montparnasse's thighs, sliding his hands up to Montparnasse's ass.

“I want to fuck you,” Montparnasse mumbles into his ear, tongue ticking the skin there. It makes Grantaire think, unwillingly, of Enjolras on the roof, stroking his earlobe, and Grantaire lifts his hips so Montparnasse can slide his pants off.

Montparnasse's hair is freshly bleached, combed into careful submission atop his head, and Grantaire wants to mess it up, grabs Montparnasse by the back of the head to kiss him and shoves his fingers in the stiff hair there, musses the carefully-gelled not-quite pompadour so that hair falls in Montparnasse's face, brushes Grantaire's forehead. Montparnasse's mouth opens wide against Grantaire's as he breathes hot air directly into Grantaire's mouth, and Grantaire thinks that he could just lie like this, sharing Montparnasse's breath back and forth until they both pass out.

But Montparnasse shifts, slips a pillow under Grantaire's hips, and pokes a slick finger inside him.

Grantaire groans, and Montparnasse, his hair falling in his eyes, smiles.

*

He has a bartending gig the night before the BSO rally. It's at this swanky place on the Upper East Side that it takes him two trains and a bus to get to, and it's not until he's there that Grantaire realizes it's an art auction.

He's dressed up, of course, but there's paint on his hands and more streaked down the side of his face because he didn't have time to shower before coming here, and he feels like shit. He's sore all over his body from boxing—he's been relegated to the weight room, so his legs, abs, and arms feel like jelly—and he's in his perpetual state of semi-hungover.

Grantaire settles behind the bar, meets the caterers and does his best to charm them via puns about their food (“My kingdom for an hors d'oeuvres!”), and pours himself a drink. Grey Goose to start the evening off right.

The art dealers look even more swanky than he does. Some of them are in tails, but most are in standard too-expensive black tie, showing each other and the buyers the paintings on the walls.

The art itself is fine. It's the kind of saccharine shit that his painting professor would lambast him for. It's like if you threw Kinkade in a blender with powdered sugar and overripe bananas. Grantaire turns away from it, focuses all his attention on making drinks.

It turns out to not be all that great a distraction, though, because at events like these almost nobody wants something complicated. He pours a lot of white wine and a lot of prosecco, mixes a dozen martinis—mostly vodka, and mostly very dry--and at midnight pops several bottles of champagne.

When he gets home, he locks himself in the one private floor bathroom and throws up, all vodka and mini quiches, and curls up against the toilet bowl and wants to cry.

*

The morning of the BSO rally, Grantaire wakes up with a stabbing pain in the back of his head.

He doesn't remember how he got off the bathroom floor and dragged himself to bed, but he does know that there's no way in hell he's making it to practice.

He texts his coach a quick apology, throws up in the bathroom, huddles in the shower for what feels like an hour, and all but crawls back to his room to make coffee. 

Then, he spends the rest of the morning curled up on his bed watching Top Gear. Something about the scripted banter and easy laughs comforts him, and he takes two ibuprofen before getting dressed, and he can't say he feels good, exactly, but at least he no longer feels like the walking dead.

Most of the rally passes in a blur. It's an absolute shitshow, two thousand of the university's thirty thousand students all forced onto a quad that barely fits a quarter that amount comfortably on a typical spring afternoon, and they are all _shouting_. Grantaire's head throbs as the people around him jump in place, chant about the administration's surveillance of black and brown students, shout about the university's support for the prison industrial complex.

YOU CAN'T CLAIM DIVERSITY & SUPPORT THE JAILS, one poster reads. It's one of Grantaire's, black letters painted carefully behind overly-detailed jail cell bars, an angry-looking blackbird perched above the bars, its wings deliberately uneven. 

SURVEILLANCE IS RACIST, claims another, stark red block letters against heavy white foamboard. This one isn't Grantaire's, but it's the one he feels the most reflexively angry about. He wonders if he's one of the brown students the school watches, but he figures he's so minimally involved in anything of worth that it's unlikely.

It's started getting cold, too, so Grantaire, hungover and raw-throated, can barely make himself scream. He stands in place instead, waves the poster he was commissioned to draw by Courfeyrac, carefully does not participate in the die-in, listens to chants about the administration spying on black and brown students, and can't find it in him to really take part.

At one point, someone hops on the statue of the founder, shouts about how he wants to topple it like Mao, and other students get involved in it too, shouting about toppling the stupid statue. No one discourages them, and they start trying to tear it down, as if a statue that's had hundreds of drunk students piss on it and climb it and drunkenly make out against it is going to be so poorly set that ten kids pushing it will knock it down. 

Public safety intervenes anyway. They tidily arrest every student within a five foot radius of the statue, and even as the shouts get louder, declare the rally over. 

That's when the students revolt, running in tandem toward public safety, pushing and shoving each other in an effort to—what? Get toward the officers faster? Get away? Grantaire gets elbowed in the ribs, and he can't tell why, or by whom.

Someone on a megaphone tells them to all go home or risk suspension or arrest by the actual NYPD, and, the crowd being mostly composed of the exact types of people unlikely to get off with a warning when it comes to the NYPD, they disperse.

From what Grantaire can see, the students following public safety are the usual suspects: the head of the Socialists' Club, one of the Dems who isn't trying to eventually run for office, several BSO members, one of the Queer Alliance freshmen, and—Grantaire's vision goes white at the edges—Enjolras.

Later, he won't remember tearing after public safety; he won't remember getting clocked in the head by a stiff poster, or falling over, or getting half-trampled as students fled the quad. He won't even remember who helped him up in the end, who dragged him back to his building. 

All he remembers is the terror he feels at Enjolras's arrest, and the anger at himself for feeling terror, and the way Enjolras looks in handcuffs.

*

The ABC's first meeting after the BSO rally is yet another shitshow.

It's an emergency debrief, scheduled via text message after the leaders of all major involved student groups have met up and talked about how to proceed (a newspaper op-ed or two, from what Grantaire gathers). Grantaire's head is still throbbing, and he can't tell which part is from the possible concussion and which is from his hangover. Several other members of the ABC are holding ice packs over various parts of their bodies. Bossuet in particular looks the worse for wear. Their first match is the week after Thanksgiving, and Bossuet looks horrible.

“Hello, all,” Combeferre says grimly. 

He is mercifully unharmed and unarrested, and Grantaire can't help but think he'd rather _Enjolras_ be here, and Combeferre be in whatever the university's equivalent of jail is. Something rational tells him Enjolras has a much bigger chance of being just fine than Combeferre does, but Grantaire is not much for rationality at the moment.

“How are we getting Enjolras free?” Grantaire says. 

Combeferre has a very shrewd sort of way that he looks at people when he thinks they're being particularly strange and can't figure out their motivations. It's a sort of eye-squint/pursed lip/raised eyebrow combo. He directs this look at Grantaire now, which Grantaire thinks is stupid, because of course he wants the leader of the ABC to be out of university jail. It seems obvious. It seems stupidly obvious.

“I don't know,” Combeferre says. “I'm here to tell you what the rally leaders decided.”

“Which is?” Eponine asks. 

She, too, is mercifully unarrested. In fact, the only ABC members missing are Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Grantaire is surprised to find how precious little he cares about the former.

“We're going ahead with the ABC rally in December,” Combeferre says.

“ _What_?” Grantaire says, but around him the ABC is hollering in favor.

“It's going to be even bigger than this one. We want every marginalized individual at this school there—every woman, every LGBTQA person, every person of color, every lower income or first generation student, every undocumented individual working or studying on this campus—and not just undergrad. We want the grad schools in on it, we want the faculty. We want it all.”

“That's stupid,” Grantaire says.

“No, it's not. It's brave.”

The voice comes from behind them, from the door, and Grantaire's head turns around so reflexively, so quickly, that he gets whiplash.

Enjolras looks as tired as the rest of them, but aside from a bruise blooming across his nose, he's mercifully whole.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says. Grantaire might be imagining it, but Combeferre sounds as relieved as Grantaire feels.

“Combeferre.”

Combeferre breaks out into his sparkling smile, and Enjolras matches it, his smile so stunning that it makes Grantaire's heart thump embarrassingly against his ribcage, makes him look like a gladiator who's just won a battle instead of like a twenty-one year old rebellious rich kid. Jesus _fuck_ he hadn't known Enjolras was capable of being _more_ attractive--

“They let you out,” Combeferre says. 

“When your father's name is on a building,” Enjolras says, shrugging. But he looks angry still. “They all but forced me out.”

“Of course they did.”

“I was trying to bargain to get other students out as well, but they only let me out. Courfeyrac's still there trying to get others out, but most people--”

“Don't have their names on buildings in midtown, right,” Eponine says. “Stop bragging.”

Enjolras looks distressed. “ _No_ , they wouldn't listen to me—they're suspending the involved students, and I was going to go with them, I _would have_ gone with them, but one of the public safety officers recognized my name when he took my school ID and told me to leave, and no matter how hard I fought they wouldn't take no for an answer, even when I told them I'd sue for being manhandled if they didn't let all the others go too.”

“So ten of our school's biggest troublemakers are getting suspended,” Feuilly says. He's smiling. He has a black eye—when, Grantaire wonders, did that happen? “That'll make the news for sure.”

“We'll show them biggest fucking troublemakers,” Enjolras says, and takes his seat beside Combeferre. He slots into place perfectly. He looks like he's been there the whole time. He looks so fucking incredibly hot and so fucking incredibly stupid and naïve. “So—our rally during finals week.”

Grantaire's head throbs harder.

*

The mournful recorder music is blasting again.

They're drug testing at boxing the night before their first match, which means Grantaire is off the illegal drugs, and he's still off the hard liquor from his last bartending gig's resulting stomach issues, which means he's switched over to very cheap red wine.

Grantaire's head hurts desperately. He has always hated skipping boxing practice, hated the way it gives his body just enough time to realize that it's in pain before he starts abusing it again. Skipping yesterday and having off this weekend (“Rest up, enjoy Thanksgiving, stick to protein over carbs and don't fuck up your weight classes,” Coach said. “Grantaire, you need three more pounds, so do your thing.”) is having its usual awful effect on him. His ribcage hurts where it was elbowed yesterday, and there's a lump on his forehead that makes him wonder if he's actually been concussed. He looks horrible.

His painting is coming along surprisingly well, though. It's the first landscape he's worked on in months that he hasn't wanted to burn immediately. It's all an angry, raging pink version of the Stockholm skyline with the Burj Khalifa transplanted into the dead center, something different from everything he's ever done before. Something that, at least, piques his interest, for the first time all semester. For the first time all year, maybe.

The fucking recorder won't let up, and Jehan fucking sucks at this instrument, because he's playing it all screechy and gross, and Grantaire wants to throw up.

He's avoided Jehan for weeks now, but it's gotten ridiculous, and he can't tell if the recorder is a passive aggressive grab for attention or if Jehan has truly forgotten that Grantaire is in the studio next to his. It wouldn't surprise him, really. Jehan is kind of spacey, and Grantaire doesn't usually make much of an impression.

Finally it gets to be too much, though, and anyway Jehan is his _friend_ , right, it's ridiculous to keep arguing about this, especially when they're in classes together now, always have been, will be next semester and probably the ones after that--

Jehan's door is open, and he's lying on the floor playing his recorder while his painting looms above him at the very highest point on the easel. It's probably too hard for Jehan to paint comfortably at that level even standing up, but either way, he doesn't even have his brushes out.

“Hey,” Grantaire says.

The music stops, and Jehan tilts his chin back to look up.

“Hi,” Jehan says.

“What's up?” Grantaire says.

“Nothing.” Jehan sighs. “Gravity's got me down, down, down.”

He takes a long drag of the joint smoking on the floor inches away from the legs of his easel, and looks back up at the ceiling. The canvas on the easel is blank except for one stark blob of black paint, a big dark clot at the top and a narrow drip toward the bottom.

It looks done. Grantaire hates Jehan sometimes, hates how he can just _do_ art like that. Grantaire can't _just do_ anything, least of all painting.

“I wanted to ask you to keep the recorder down,” Grantaire says. “Or at least less—frenzied.”

“Right.” Jehan swings around so that he's facing Grantaire, does a full, belabored 180 spin on the floor like the needle in _Wheel of Fortune_. “Sorry.” 

“I know you don't like painting in total silence,” Grantaire says. “You know you can always—paint with me.”

Jehan looks at him. “Have you gotten over yourself yet?”

“I tried, but gravity keeps holding me down.”

Jehan's smile curls out slowly, like Grantaire has dragged it out of him by force. 

“Grab my easel?” Jehan says, taking Grantaire's proffered hand, getting up, and sliding his canvas off the easel.

“Listen,” Grantaire says, following Jehan into the other studio. “You want to do a rooftop paint with our painting professor?”

“Wait, you got invited to that?” Jehan looks at him in faint alarm. “Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“It didn't seem like that big a deal.”

Jehan stares at him. “How are you simultaneously a part of the art world—art _and_ art history!--and totally fucking clueless about who our painting professor is?”

“What?”

“He's, like, the most famous artist-turned-art collector in New York. He invites no more than five people a semester to his rooftop painting session, and they _all_ end up showing in Chelsea within the next _two years_ , R—”

“Jesus, what?” It feels suddenly like all the air has gone out of the room. “So you mean this is going to be a—a dog show? Like—a test?” 

“ _No_ ,” Jehan says, and Grantaire hasn't even realized he's closed his eyes until he opens them and Jehan is standing inches away from him, holding Grantaire's jaw in his hand. “You've already impressed him. The dog show is over. You passed the test. This is the awards luncheon the day after.”

Grantaire still can't really breathe, has to sit down against the wall for a moment, presses his head against it, forces himself to exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

“R,” Jehan says. Grantaire's heart is pounding so loudly that he can barely hear him. His head throbs, too, and the room around him fizzles in and out of sight. It feels like someone is squeezing him on all sides, like he's going to explode out of his skin. “Take a hit, here, it'll help--”

Grantaire knocks Jehan's joint out of his hand, and Jehan looks affronted for a moment, before--“Oh, fuck, sorry, drug tests, I forgot--”

“Xanax,” Grantaire says. “In my bag--”

Jehan shoves a prescription bottle into his hand, and Grantaire bites off his usual half pill, swallows it dry, forces himself to breathe.

Jehan settles down next to him, sits still while Grantaire calms down, a steadying heat at Grantaire's side.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says.

Jehan hands him a bottle of water wordlessly. Grantaire takes a sip of it, then another, relishes the wetness in his mouth without even realizing how dry it had been.

“You okay?” Jehan says finally, after Grantaire has nearly finished the bottle. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Sorry, I just--”

“No, it's cool,” Jehan says. “A lot of people get them.”

“Come with me,” Grantaire says. “I know it's not your job or whatever, I just—come with me?”

“Yeah,” Jehan says. “Sure.” He relights the joint Grantaire put out, takes a long drag. “God, it must suck that you can't smoke.”

“Fuck yeah, it sucks,” Grantaire says. He sighs. “I'm pretty sure I have a concussion.”

“No shit,” Jehan says. “Half your face is bruised, Man-Bun.”

“You can't start calling me that.”

“That's been your name in the group chat since you let me give you that haircut.”

“Wow,” Grantaire says, laughing. “I fucked up.”

“You need a trim.”

“I need to grow it back.”

Grantaire turns so that his face is very close to Jehan's. Jehan's face is beautiful, elfin if mythical elves ever had dark skin. He has the kind of cheekbones most people need to get surgically implanted. His eyes are startlingly green. His hair is startlingly lavender. He looks other worldly, like he's just stepped out of the pages of some gritty urban fantasy. Holly Black could've written him. Lev Grossman. Grantaire exhales through his teeth.

“I want to paint you,” he says.

“You only paint Enjolras.”

“Maybe I need a change.”

Jehan sighs. “I can't sit still long enough for anyone to paint me.”

“I can paint you while you sleep.”

“That's creepy, Man-Bun.”

“You could be my muse.”

Jehan snorts. “Every artist's dream.”

Grantaire stands up, holds out a hand for Jehan.

“The conversation we just had,” Grantaire says. “It's closer to flirting than Enjolras and I have ever gotten.”

“You're just a flirt,” Jehan says, taking Grantaire's hand and hauling himself up. “And Enjolras couldn't flirt to save his life … or an oppressed brown child's life--”

Grantaire laughs despite himself. “I've never heard any of you say one bad word against him.”

“He's a good guy,” Jehan says, contemplating Grantaire's pink painting. “He's just socially awkward, emotionally disconnected, and pretentious. Who among us isn't?”

“I'm not socially awkward.”

“Who among us isn't at least _two out of three_?”

“Courfeyrac?”

Jehan laughs. It's loud, louder than Grantaire expected.

“You don't know him as well as I do,” Jehan says. “Why the Burj Khalifa?”

“What?”

“Why the Burj Khalifa? What does Dubai have to do with Stockholm?”

“You figure it out,” Grantaire says. “Wanna ditch this and watch a movie?”

“You still trying to get into my pants, R?”

“I'm going to finish my Xanax and pass out, so no.”

“Sadly, I have to pass up the opportunity anyway,” Jehan says.

“Hot date?”

“Dinner with Courfeyrac.”

“So … yes?”

Jehan rolls his eyes. “The exact opposite.”

“A cold date?”

“Something like that.”

“You're being cryptic,” Grantaire says. “You're never cryptic.”

“I'm always cryptic,” Jehan says. “I'm a riddle wrapped up in a mystery inside an enigma--”

“And squeezed into a very tight skirt?”

“Ha ha,” Jehan says dryly. “Let's get you into bed, Sleepyhead.”

“Against the walls against your rules against your skin--” Grantaire sings, and Jehan laughs, wraps an arm around him, and walks him out.

*

Grantaire wakes up feeling tense and drawn out, but, for the first time in days, neither panicky nor particularly anxious. His stomach hurts, rough and acidic like it always is when he's mixed Xanax with liquor.

He brushes his teeth and grimaces at himself in the mirror. 

No one else is up yet, this early on a Sunday, and they don't have boxing practice today, either, so Grantaire decides to spend his morning haunting Joly and Bossuet's. He hasn't seen them properly since their brunch weeks ago—he's been too busy and anxious all the time, and Joly's on the back end of a second round of midterms, so none of them have been having much fun. Bossuet has already texted him, though: _come over for breakfast_

He texts Bossuet back-- _bringing bagels, orange juice, & vodka—hope u have champagne_\--and slings his bag over his shoulder. He gets to the elevator, pushes the down button, and waits.

“Hi!”

Grantaire looks over.

“Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

He hasn't seen Enjolras since the post-rally ABC meeting, and he's unsurprised to see that Enjolras looks supremely smug. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras would still be capable of looking down his nose at him if Grantaire were a few inches taller. He thinks Enjolras probably would find a way.

“How are you?”

“Tired,” Grantaire admits.

“It's early. You heading to the library?”

Grantaire shrugs, and the bottles in his bag clink. He grins. 

“I guess not,” Enjolras says.

“Not with that attitude.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You know, I kinda forget you live on my floor sometimes,” Grantaire says. “You're never here.”

“ _You're_ never here,” Enjolras says, and then coughs and looks away, like he's just said something very embarrassing.

Which, Grantaire realizes a moment later, he _has_. “Oh, shit,” Grantaire says. “You've checked.”

“Well—I needed to get ABC flyers and such, you know--”

“Do I?” Grantaire says. “Do I know?”

“Only, you're always at boxing or in the studio with Jehan or with that newspaper guy, so--”

“So you can't scold me for fucking around instead of working for the cause, like you?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “That's not what I meant.”

“It is sort of what you said.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “I suppose it is.” He's silent for a moment. “It's not what I meant.”

Their elevator arrives at last.

“Sometimes I just want to see you,” Enjolras says. He isn't looking at Grantaire, staring straight ahead of himself at the closing elevator doors. Even now, the line of his profile is stiff, strong, statuesque. The pain in Grantaire's gut worsens. “You know. Get to know you better.”

“Get to know me better?”

“Well—all I know about you is that you like drinking and butterflies.”

“Perfectly normal things to like.”

“Well, yes. But I've never seen one of your paintings, or talked to you about art, or--”

Grantaire laughs. “My art would embarrass you, Apollo.”

“Don't,” Enjolras says, but the elevator doors open, and their conversation, mercifully, must end.

“I'll see you Tuesday,” Grantaire says, walking away from Enjolras as quickly as possible.

*

They invite Cosette to breakfast, and she gets there moments later, thankfully without Marius.

“I was already in the building,” she explains, and then blushes, and accepts the coffee Joly pours her.

“Where have you been?” Joly asks Grantaire. “Working? Busy? Just boxing? I haven't seen you in _ages_.”

“Bossuet's seen me.”

“Yeah, 'cause of boxing,” Joly says. “Musichetta hasn't seen you, either, right, Bossuet?”

“Musichetta isn't really my friend,” Grantaire says, and immediately feels bad. “Sorry, I--”

“No, it's fine,” Musichetta says, emerging from the bathroom, her long braids twisted into a towel high above her head. “Thanks for being honest.”

“Shit, Musichetta--”

“You don't really know me.” She shrugs, glances at Cosette. “Of course, I only met Cosette a few weeks ago, too, and I'd say I know her pretty well at this point, and _she_ isn't my boyfriends' best friend, so ...”

“They're each other's best friend,” Grantaire says, semi-automatically. He sips at his coffee. “I really am sorry, Musichetta. I didn't even know you'd updated your status to boyfriends and girlfriend--”

“We prefer trio of unlikely lovers,” Joly says.

“Trifecta of doom,” Musichetta says.

“Triple the trouble, triple the fun,” Bossuet says.

“This is getting creepy,” Cosette says. “Who wants eggs?”

*

The ABC food drive is in full swing at their next meeting—which discusses, among other things, the fallout from the rally, which is mainly just newspaper op eds and those few students' suspensions for the rest of the semester--and Grantaire brings a brown bag full of canned goods to the next meeting.

Enjolras looks at him in faint surprise and doesn't say anything.

“Thanks, R,” Courfeyrac says. “Reliable, as always.”

Eponine snorts, and Grantaire elbows her lightly when he sits down.

*

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Grantaire, Eponine, and Gavroche sit on a train to Grantaire's town in New Jersey.

The first snow of the year is falling lightly outside the window, and if Grantaire didn't know any better he'd make some romantic connection between the approaching end of the year and snow and how they're all going to die one day. 

Instead, he burrows into his seat, presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window. The back of his skull hurts from being slammed into the floor during practice yesterday. The front of his skull aches from drinking one too many whiskey-sodas at Montparnasse's friend's party last night. 

Eponine passes him her thermos of lightly spiked hot chocolate, and Grantaire takes it happily.

There was a time, he remembers, when Eponine's nail polish was never chipped.

There was the time before, of course, when she still didn't have the nerve to wear nail polish. But now she does, and now it's always chipped, but when she was first fully out, it was always perfect. Black and glossy and carefully filed into shape.

He doesn't really know what changed. She used to have the money to pay for manicures, and now she doesn't. She used to have the spare time to care about chipped nails, and now she doesn't. She's never said what happened with her family, but now she and Gavroche spend most holidays at Grantaire's house. He knows they were there most of last summer even though Grantaire himself was in Paris, and he knows they were something like homeless last year because Eponine all but lived out of his dorm room, and more often than not Gavroche was there too, sneaking in through the window when Grantaire was in class and stealing dinner for the three of them from the dining hall.

Gavroche is asleep now, the arm rest shoved up so he can curl up against Eponine's side. Eponine is wide awake, doing something on her phone while Grantaire continues to gaze wistfully out the window.

Grantaire's own phone vibrates, and it's a group Facebook message called _ABC_. He hasn't been part of it before. He wonders if it's new, or if this was a deliberate exclusion, or if they've only just remembered that he's a part of the club.

Courfeyrac: _happy thanksgiving everyone! we raised six thousand cans of food this year—new record!! cc &e are vv happy_

Enjolras: _we should keep in mind that although this is a wonderful accomplishment, the problems of homelessness & foodlessness in america are far from solved—we've barely made a drop in the bucket. if you can, continue to donate nonperishables, and not just for the holidays. spend your day off in your zip codes on friday contacting state legislators to ask them to deal with this problem, as it's one of the biggest ones facing us today, especially when one considers the manner in which race & sexuality & gender interact w class!!_

Combeferre: _yes that's all v true, but we should also look at this as a wild success—every life changed matters, and because of our efforts, there are hundreds if not thousands of families with cranberry sauce & potatoes & corn & pasta on their plates this thanksgiving. enjoy the holiday, all! see you next tuesday <3 <3 _

Combeferre, Grantaire thinks, does not seem much like the type to use emoji hearts. He considers typing something back, something like, _are you really going to solve the homelessness problem this wknd, apollo?_ or maybe, _wow, glad to see we helped some people eat some corn!!! sounds v useful in the long term_ , but instead he just messages Enjolras separately.

_happy thanksgiving, apollo. dont beat yrself up—it takes longer than two weeks to solve ancient & systemic problems_

Seconds later:

_Seen by Enjolras, 10:43 a.m._

Grantaire stares at the words on his screen until his phone goes dark, and then presses his head against the glass again and stares out the window at the passing scenery. They've already gone over the Hudson, and now they're zipping toward suburbia. Everything is trees, most of them already leaf-less, motionless against the still grey sky.

His phone vibrates.

Enjolras: _thanks. you too. see you soon._

*

Thanksgiving dinner at Grantaire's house features a dozen family members and friends packed into Grantaire's too-small dining room, a traditional American turkey trimmed with kisra and merguez and beet salads alongside mashed potatoes and yams.

“I don't understand why you put the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes,” Grantaire's grandmother is saying, like she says every year. “It makes no sense. Sweet is for dessert—so serve this for dessert!”

Grantaire smiles and makes conversation and watches as Gavroche gets absolutely coddled by Grantaire's mother's friends and desperately, horribly, _painfully_ craves a drink. He's seen pictures of his friends' Thanksgiving dinners, where cranberry punches and wide varieties of wine and hard ciders are the norm at the family table.

At Grantaire's drinks table, there are a few different sodas, a bottle of juice, a pitcher of cold water, and tea.

When dinner ends, he and Eponine slip out immediately while Gavroche continues to gorge himself on leftovers and desserts.

“Are we going to hang out with your high school friends?” Eponine asks.

“Fuck no,” Grantaire says. “I didn't have any friends in high school, remember?”

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Eponine says. “Why do you always say you don't have any friends?”

“Cause I don't.”

“You don't think that upsets your actual friends?”

Grantaire shrugs, holds the door to the neighborhood bar open for Eponine.

They sit across from each other at a corner table, watch the locals do their thing. It's a townie bar, kind of, the sort of place where people fight over the Giants and the Jets on the weekends and sing songs about dumb bullshit on the weekdays. There are a couple of ancient TVs with keno numbers running across them. There's a broken foosball table in the corner. 

Eponine's phone vibrates—something dumb, a message from Marius or something, pops up.

“'Happy Thanksgiving I miss you,'” Eponine reads, deadpan. She sighs, sets her head on her arms. “I can't believe this is still a problem for me. I mean, Jesus, how pathetic, right?”

Grantaire sighs. “We all get hung up on people. It's hard to end that without closure.”

“Marius doesn't sleep around either,” Eponine says. “He never slept with anyone, before Cosette.”

“They're it for each other, aren't they,” Grantaire says. 

“It's okay,” Eponine says. “She's your friend. You're allowed to think they're cute.”

“I think baby animals are cute. I think young love is overdramatic, fun to watch, and thoroughly off-putting.”

Eponine sighs again. Grantaire wonders why she lets herself stress out over Marius when she so clearly has more important problems. Then again, maybe that's why.

They finish their beers mostly in silence. It's a depressing drink in a depressing bar in a depressing town. On a depressing fucking holiday. Grantaire exhales through his teeth.

“Should we head home?” Eponine says. “See if Gav left us any pie?”

“That sounds good,” Grantaire says, and when she stands to leave, wrapping herself in the giant men's coat she's had since before Grantaire met her, he follows her.

*

For the rest of the Thanksgiving break, Grantaire feels alternately like he's drowning and like he's going to explode out of his skin, leave shreds of Grantaire lying around, twisted and bloodied and satisfying. It always makes him anxious to be around his family, to struggle through Arabic for his grandmother and embarrass the rest of his family with crystal clear French. He pops a Xanax every morning, and he can't sleep when the sun sets, and he stays up for hours staring at the skinny sleeping forms of Eponine and Gavroche on the air mattress.

They have real problems, Grantaire thinks. Homelessness, probably, and neglectful parents. Probably abuse too. He doesn't have much of a right to be like this, he really doesn't, and it's not fair to himself or to them that he's such a mess, but what's he supposed to do? Stop?

His mother asks him if he's okay in three different languages, and Grantaire lies to her in English. He taps his finger through Snapchats and doesn't like anything on Instagram and mostly avoids Facebook. He laughs bitterly into the semi-darkness of his room in the early morning. He wants to crawl out of his skin, but when he tries to think of anywhere he'd rather be, his mind draws a blank.

On Friday morning, he calls his state legislators. He gets an out of office message.

*

Eponine and Gavroche go back to New York a day before Grantaire does.

Grantaire feels wildly, insanely alone, and it isn't altogether that different from how he usually feels except that there's a note of desperation to it now. He sleeps with a random from grindr, someone who might've been in his algebra class in eighth grade, and he spends the night driving around until he gets too sleepy to be driving safely anymore.

His mother gives him a giant bag of Algerian food to take back to school with him, and he hauls it over his shoulder and gets on the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's only reference was to Winston Churchill's [1939 speech about Russia](http://www.churchill-society-london.org.uk/RusnEnig.html). Grantaire turned it into a (slightly sexist) [Doctor Who reference](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJG_JXEd39k), and then started singing [this Passion Pit song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0RvPYRRRbE). It's possible I should start linking in-chapter—your thoughts?
> 
> Chapters should return to the usual every-other-weekend schedule after this one. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading—please leave a comment! Let me know what you think or if you have any questions.


	6. december; or, another night alone in the city

Not everyone can love New York, but Grantaire can breathe properly again once the skyline looms ahead of him outside the window of his train. He feels more comfortable underground, and more comfortable still when the train doors open and he has to find his way to the much less cozy 1 train.

New York makes him crave a new tattoo. He's got a bunch of stick and pokes scattered across his arms and legs, a few lines of poetry, some of his own art. He wants something else, though, and he has almost nothing on his legs lower than his upper thighs, and he's thinking something new—finger prints inches above his knee cap or something. He has to play with it, but he definitely wants another one, wants to feel the pain that creates art. He likes that it's physical, that he gets the most beautiful work done when it hurts the most and that people can _see_ the pain. Art out of misery. Something beautiful from something horrible. Who was it that said that—all art is pain? Someone smart, anyway.

Grantaire stops at Duane Reade on his way home to pick up his Xanax refill and invites Cosette over, and they play music and catch up and share two bottles of wine until Grantaire falls asleep.

It's nice, even if he does wake up nursing a heavy tannin-y hangover.

*

Enjolras is talking about the ABC rally, and Grantaire still thinks it's a stupid fucking idea, but it's so hard to remember that when Enjolras opens his mouth. He loves watching Enjolras when he gets passionate about something, loves watching how deeply optimistic Enjolras is about everything—about the human race, about the potential for change. It brings something to life in Grantaire that he hadn't known was dead. It makes Grantaire almost believe him.

“We're going to make this work,” Enjolras says. “The whole school will come. It's going to be incredible.”

The ABC cheers, and Grantaire is surprised to hear that he is cheering, too.

“Now—we're going to loosen up a little with a game night on the last day of read week,” Courfeyrac says. He's handing out flyers designed by Grantaire, all pink and purple watercolor with a throwback black font announcing G A M E N I G H T. He squeezes Feuilly's shoulder as he passes, ruffles Marius's hair. “Board games only. We'll need to get away from the screens after that week of paper-writing and exam-cramming hell, don't you think? Even if you have a final or something, try and take a break. It'll be good for you in the long term.”

“And we're making Enjolras come,” Combeferre adds, to a massive rallying cry of whoops and cheers. “Thursday. Read week. Be there.”

He winks in Grantaire's general direction, and beside Grantaire, Eponine laughs.

*

The semester ends, not with a bang, but with a heavily belabored groan.

Grantaire has two boxing matches, two art projects, three papers, and one take home final between himself and winter break.

The first boxing match is an out of league skirmish, and Grantaire wins his round quickly enough that Coach pounds him on the back, tells him, “Good work.” 

Their team dominates, but it's out of league, their opponents from some semi-upstate school like Bard or Vassar or Marist who are D3 or something absurd. Losing to a D3 team when you're D1 isn't just embarrassing. It's mortifying. It's death.

*

The only thing Grantaire liked about his summer in Paris was how frequently he could paint outside.

His apartment there boasted a gorgeous view of the Seine and one of its many bridges, lined on either side with luscious green summer trees and buildings that looked like they'd been plucked out of a medieval coloring book. More importantly, it had a rooftop deck that Grantaire could drag his easel and canvas up to with minimal effort. If he wanted to, Grantaire could paint all day.

Not that he'd ever wanted to, that summer. All the art he'd made had been dragged out of him kicking and screaming (figuratively, because Grantaire couldn't be bothered to kick and scream that summer) by his professor, who'd allowed students to work wherever they wanted so long as they checked in with him every few days. But Professor Klein hadn't found Grantaire to be an easy case, and had made the check-ins more frequent, found Grantaire drunk and having knocked over all his paints more often than not, took less and less of Grantaire's shit as the summer wore on.

By the end, he was coming over to Grantaire's, setting up his own easel beside him, and painting in silence. Professor Klein's painting was very precise, very controlled and correct. He followed all the rules you learned in intro art classes in high school. He did not use blacks for shadows, and his lines were so thin, so sharp, that they disappeared whenever he started to shade—but you could always tell they'd been there. 

He hadn't cared if Grantaire got drunk while working. In fact, he'd joined in more than once, insisting that Grantaire bring glasses up and refilling both their glasses liberally. In the end, Klein's efforts had led to his own creation of several landscapes and Grantaire's creation of one derivative and almost ugly reproduction of the river.

Sitting on the roof of his painting professor's apartment now, Grantaire could not help but reflect on the end of that awful summer in Paris. It should have been glorious, should have been _gorgeous_ \--but instead he'd wasted it away drinking. It was so easy to find cheap but decent wine in Paris, only two Euros for a decent bottle of pinot noir.

In New York, that isn't the case.

There are refreshments set out—things you can eat with your fingers, mainly desserts. And there is a table positively loaded with bottles, reds and whites and sparklings in the front and clears and browns and single malts in the back. 

Grantaire helps himself to a hefty pour of whiskey (Irish for now, because he's no good at chugging Scotch), and settles down beside Jehan.

Painting outside is gorgeous. Grantaire inhales deeply, all the smog and piss and garbage left stories below them on the streets. He loves New York with the fierce, abiding love of one who has been wronged and has tried and failed to find it within himself to care. He loves New York, and sometimes it makes him feel like he's drowning, but at least he's drowning with eight million other people. 

He does something new this time: he paints the Hudson first, inky black with brown undertones. And then he paints the lights gleaming off it, harsh oil against the layers of watercolor. He doesn't fuck with watercolor that often, but it works here, gives the Hudson its trademark combination of gritty and dreamy. It hasn't frozen over yet, but you can tell just by looking at it that it's getting ready. The water flows slower, maybe. The molecules don't move as quickly. Grantaire doesn't know physics, or chemistry, or whatever fucking field that is, but he knows there's something with water molecules and speed and that has to do with the way the water turns into ice or whatever.

“That looks really good,” Jehan says from beside him. Jehan is high as a kite—though really, when isn't he—and smiling at his canvas, a chalk pastel mess featuring a blur of color that could be the lights from the New Jersey buildings but could also be a rug in a public library children's room or vomit on gravel in the summer.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says.

His painting professor is working, too, but he's on his laptop, looking at what might be an auction site or something. Grantaire doesn't bother paying much attention to him, because it's nice to paint without someone hovering over his shoulder to check his progress.

They've been at it for several hours already, and it's nearing midnight, and it's getting chilly on the roof, but Grantaire doesn't care.

He dots in a winter tree, carefully bare, and breathes.

*

Grantaire's second boxing match ends with him battered and bruised but victorious, and Coach lifts Grantaire's arm in victory.

It's their first in-league meet of the season, and they demolish the opposition.

Afterward, they all have Gatorade and pizza, Coach ordering enough that they can each have a pie and a gallon each even though they've been on strict protein-bulking diets for weeks. 

“You'll need your strength for practice tomorrow,” Coach says, and they all whoop.

*

Game night comes as a welcome relief from boxing, rally-planning, paper-writing, and finals-studying.

They've decided to have it drug and alcohol free, which means that Grantaire has smuggled a Coke bottle filled with a healthy helping of Captain Morgan into the lounge they're playing in. He also smoked a bowl with Jehan right before game night, because boxing is on a break until the new year and he can do whatever he wants now, and all he ever wants to do is get high.

He gets roped into a game of Settlers of Catan with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and is not altogether surprised when Enjolras joins them, though Enjolras certainly looks surprised to see Grantaire. Enjolras is wearing glasses. They look surprising and yet not altogether out of place on his face.

“I thought this was a three-person game,” Enjolras says. “That is—I'll just—I mean, I can play Monopoly with Bahorel--”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Combeferre says. “You know Feuilly is going to dominate Monopoly. Sit down. This game's best with four.”

Enjolras sighs, sits down cross-legged across from Grantaire. “Okay,” he says. “Teach me how to play.”

“Pick a color,” Grantaire says.

“Red,” Enjolras says immediately. 

“Green for me,” Grantaire says. 

They both reach for the pieces at once, and their hands brush, and Grantaire finds that he cannot breathe normally. He turns to look at Enjolras, to see if he's felt it too, and sees Enjolras staring back at him in faint surprise. Enjolras almost looks sick, but he looks exhausted, too, so Grantaire can't even find it in himself to be insulted. He's never seen Enjolras look this tired—the circles under his eyes look deep and hollow, and his eyes themselves are bloodshot. Finals are hard, and read week is sometimes harder, but Enjolras looks like he's been through 'Nam.

Grantaire says this out loud, “Enjolras, dude, you look like you've been through 'Nam,” and Enjolras looks like he's going to protest, but then only sighs.

“I'm really tired,” he admits, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange a look.

“Me, too,” Grantaire says, and, on a whim, squeezes the hand that is still millimeters away from his own.

Enjolras looks up at him in shock, eyes wide, and then relaxes. “So—we start out with a town? Is that right?”

“A settlement,” Courfeyrac corrects, and the game begins.

*

“Wait, explain it again,” Grantaire says.

“It's an emo-themed winter a capella concert,” Montparnasse says patiently, his hand wrapped carefully around Grantaire's cock. “We were going to have Christmas carols, but the Muslims rebelled.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, unable to form more words as Montparnasse squeezes. “That sounds--”

“Nice, I know,” Montparnasse says. “Anyway—you and 'Ponine should come.”

“That—that could be fun,” Grantaire manages.

“Fun indeed,” Montparnasse says, and stops fucking around, and bites Grantaire's neck.

Grantaire groans.

“You are so easy,” Montparnasse purrs into his ear, his tongue shooting out to lick at the earlobe.

Someone knocks.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says. 

“Who is that?” Montparnasse says. “Since when do you have visitors?”

“ _You're_ my visitor.”

“I'm fucking you. It's not exactly a social call.”

Someone knocks again.

“Are you going to get that, or--”

“Jesus,” Grantaire says. “ _Fine_.”

He drags his jeans back on—they rise over his erection only reluctantly—and has to kick two pairs of shoes aside to get to the door. He ignores Montparnasse's protests at this (“They're _McQueen_ , Jesus--”) and looks through the peephole.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says again. 

Enjolras knocks a third time. “Grantaire? Are you home?”

Grantaire opens the door. “Hi,” he says.

Enjolras stares at him. He is wearing glasses again. They look like past-season Ray-Bans or something, the kind of thing that would've been really hip in like 2012. “Hi,” he says.

His eyes take in Grantaire's shirtlessness, his messed up hair, his clearly hard dick, and then rise up to meet Grantaire's again. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Grantaire says.

“Yes!” Montparnasse calls.

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “Sorry.”

“Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were coming to the rally,” Enjolras says. 

_You couldn't have texted me?_ Grantaire wants to ask, but he's the one who invited his fuckbuddy over so he could pretend that he was Enjolras—which is so so fucked up on so many levels even though Montparnasse's hair isn't blond anymore, is oil slick black now—and so he doesn't say anything.

“So--” Enjolras says. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Coming to the rally.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “I mean—does it matter? There are going to be hundreds of people you said, right? Thousands? All the marginalized peoples from here to Washington Heights?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “Yeah, that's what we're hoping.” 

He doesn't move.

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Cool—so--”

“But I just want to make sure,” Enjolras presses on. “Just in case—you know—if not a lot of people show—we still really want the core of the ABC to be there--”

“I'll be there,” Grantaire says. “Jesus, Apollo--”

“Don't,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire has never seen him like this, and it's another moment before he figures it out: this is Enjolras, nervous. 

“Look, do you like—do you want a Xanax or something? A drink, maybe? We could smoke a bowl?”

Enjolras looks at him. “Don't you have something to be doing?”

“Some _one_ ,” Montparnasse shouts, and Enjolras almost visibly recoils.

“You look like you could use a chill pill,” Grantaire says. “At least let me give you one of those.”

“One of what?” Enjolras says. 

He is very close, Grantaire notices, and he can't help but think of the thumping in his heart, the twisting in his belly, at the last ABC meeting. Enjolras is beautiful, yes, but his physical grace is nothing in comparison to hearing him speak. Grantaire wishes he could bottle the passion in Enjolras's voice and sell it at farmer's markets. Organic free trade locally grown fucks to give.

“A Xanax,” Grantaire says.

“Right,” Enjolras says. “No, that's okay. I have some Ativan.”

“Anxiety twins.”

“Odd thing to bond over.”

“People bond over odd things every day. Charges, for one.”

More poorly thought-out chemistry. What are those things called? Ironic bonds? Cobalanced?

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. His voice is hoarse. He starts to back away.

“Wait,” Grantaire says. “Where are you going? I mean—for winter break. Are you staying here?”

“I—my family lives in New York,” Enjolras says. “We might go on vacation. Someplace warm, my mother says.”

“So you're going to vacate. Haha. Get it? I always thought it was weird, how vacation comes from vacate, which is like this compulsive need to leave, right? But we think of vacations as a good thing.”

Something in Enjolras's jaw works for a moment. And then he smiles.

“I'll see you at the rally, Grantaire,” he says. 

He squeezes Grantaire's wrist, and it feels oddly formal, the way the breath goes out of Grantaire's body all at once. 

“I'll see you at the rally,” Grantaire echoes.

Enjolras leaves, and does not look back.

“Jesus, finally,” Montparnasse says, from directly behind Grantaire. 

He shoves the door closed, wraps a hand around Grantaire's dick from behind, strokes it slowly. 

“Fuck me,” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire turns abruptly, kisses Montparnasse hungrily on the mouth, and pushes him onto the bed. 

“Roll over,” Grantaire says, and Montparnasse coughs out a laugh and obeys.

*

**the ABC PRESENTS**  
 **YOU CAN'T SCARE US**  
 _for the marginalized individual_

Grantaire stares at the sign, massive, all black and white, stark letters. He adds a flourish on the last _l_ , hopes no one else reads it as a joke even though he can barely keep himself from snickering. 

“Thanks, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. 

Combeferre and Bahorel set it up as Courfeyrac directs.

It's a cold December morning, the sun gleaming off the roofs of the newest buildings high above them. They are all wearing too much clothing, jeans layered over long underwear and coats layered over sweaters layered over thermal shirts layered over undershirts. Grantaire is wrapped in his grey wool coat, bundled into a green scarf the size of a blanket, and he still feels the chill.

“Where's Enjolras?” he says, rubbing his hands together. 

Courfeyrac, seeing this, seizes Grantaire's gloveless hands and rubs them between his own gloved ones. It's odd, but Grantaire hasn't really noticed until recently how much everyone in the ABC touches everyone else in the ABC—it's small touches, really, hands at the smalls of backs and heads tucked against shoulders and fingers placed calmingly on wrists, but they do it so much that Grantaire has grown used to it. 

“Don't worry,” Courfeyrac says. “He hasn't disappeared on us or anything.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“He's just trying to rally some people last minute,” Courfeyrac says. “I told him to leave it up to me, but he seemed …”

“Terrifying?”

Courfeyrac grins, a quirk of the lip that changes his whole face, makes him look a little warmer. Brings the color back to his cheeks. “Nervous,” he says.

“Kinda wanna see that,” Grantaire says, separating from Courfeyrac and lighting a cigarette. “You want one?”

Courfeyrac watches him for a moment, then accepts it. “You wouldn't happen to have a secret joint on you, would you?”

“Bahorel might.”

But Bahorel is busy assembling the sign with Combeferre, so Courfeyrac and Grantaire smoke their cigarettes in semi-silence. They're a little stale—Grantaire's had them since before boxing season—but they smoke okay, and Courfeyrac doesn't make any complaints.

“We just can't let Combeferre see us,” he says.

Combeferre takes that exact moment to turn around and wag his finger at them, but Grantaire ignores it, relishing the burn inside his throat.

“We're getting drinks after this, right?” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac laughs. “Pre-finals beverages. Sounds good.”

“The last supper.”

“The drink at the end of the world.”

Grantaire laughs. “Rough week ahead?”

“Isn't yours?”

Grantaire nods.

“Sometimes I think I should've studied psychology or neurology or something,” Courfeyrac says. “So I could figure out what exactly this kind of stress does to the human mind.”

“Isn't that what Combeferre's doing?”

“Sort of,” Courfeyrac says. “I mean, he wants to be a doctor, you know, like in a hospital. Not do research.”

“Fair enough.” Grantaire exhales. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you and Combeferre, like--” He waves his arms around meaningfully. Courfeyrac seems to get it.

“Together?” He snorts, as if the idea is ludicrous. “No. He's mostly straight, surprisingly enough.”

“Straights are allowed in this club?”

“Barely. He had to claw his way in by proving himself a worthy ally.”

“And, you know, he's marginalized in other ways.”

Courfeyrac laughs out loud, a sharp gasp cutting through the cold air around them. “Good point.”

Grantaire feels lighter, for some reason. He stamps out his cigarette and deposits it neatly in a nearby designated ash tray. 

“You know,” Courfeyrac continues. “I'm pretty sure Enjolras has been single since, like, early high school.”

Grantaire laughs. It sounds brittle. “And determined to stay that way, it would seem.”

“You have evidence of this?”

“Well, maybe he's not determined to stay single, but his type certainly isn't deadbeat affirmative action artsy types.”

“Was that supposed to be a description of you?”

Grantaire shrugs again. “You want another cigarette?”

“No,” Courfeyrac says. “We should probably get back inside, start getting everyone together to march.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “You want me to do anything?”

“Can you start texting people?” Courfeyrac says. “Your boxing team—dance team—you know the drill.”

“You're worried, too.”

“It's cold,” Courfeyrac says. “It's finals.”

“People don't want to get suspended.”

“People don't want to get suspended,” Courfeyrac echoes. “It'll be okay, though. Our marketing was good. Enjolras inspires people. We'll be fine.”

“We'll be fine,” Grantaire says, and claps Courfeyrac on the back. “Let's do this shit.”

*

Grantaire's arms are stretched in front of him, the fingers on both hands reaching forward aimlessly. He's trying to get the kinks out, to relax his cold limbs. He feels frostbitten. He feels hypothermic.

“We took a loss today,” Enjolras says, and stops.

Grantaire has never seen him at a loss for words before, but right now, Enjolras just looks so _beaten_. It pisses Grantaire off for some reason, riles something inside of him. He feels irrationally angry at Enjolras for this.

“We took a bad hit,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Is there something you'd like to say, Grantaire?”

“Not at all, Dear Leader,” Grantaire says.

“Thanks, as always, for your input,” Enjolras snaps. “Are you just here to be an asshole, or are you good for literally anything else?”

Grantaire stares at him. He wants to throw up. “I have a vague ambition in that direction,” he says.

“Why do you talk like such a fucking prick all the fucking time?”

“Why are you taking out your disappointment in your shitty idea on me?”

“It's not a shitty idea!”

“Really? Then why didn't it work?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Enjolras says. “Why do you even _come_ to these meetings, Jesus, all you do is sleep and harass me for fun--”

“I don't--”

“ _Yes_ , you do!”

“Disagreeing with you isn't the same thing as harassing you,” Grantaire says. “Sorry that I don't lick your fucking boots like everyone else here--”

“Stop acting like you do what you do because you care about me,” Enjolras says. “Everyone knows you don't give a shit about the ABC _or_ the cause--”

“The _cause_?” Grantaire says, incredulous. “What's that—the communist revolution? Who do you think you are? What do you think you're going to accomplish? Just because you're rich, doesn't mean everyone's going to _listen_ to you--”

“That's enough,” Combeferre says, placing a hand on Enjolras's back. 

The voice shocks Grantaire, who's forgotten they aren't alone. He exhales through his nose. “You don't get to determine what I do and don't care about, Apollo.”

“Then _prove it_ ,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire considers him. “Fine,” he says. “I think there are two big places you fucked up: first is that the university's punishments did a good job of dissuading people to come, and everyone knows _you_ only got off last time 'cause of your name. That breeds resentment. Not everyone here has a famous enough name to get out of shit. People's friends were suspended. Heads of the BSO, of the QA--you need to consider that.”

“I do consider that,” Enjolras says. “I _did_ consider that. What happened at the BSO rally is my _nightmare_ \--the idea of you, of _any_ of you, getting arrested or suspended or hurt in any way--”

“Second,” Grantaire continues, “you didn't incentivize coming. No free food. No guarantee a change would actually happen. No one wants to risk wasting a semester's worth of tuition just to spread a message. You can spread messages on Facebook. What's different about a rally?”

“People together get results—they provide a visual demonstration of just how much people care--”

“But it's finals,” Grantaire says. “And people care more about not wasting the thirty thousand dollars they paid for this semester's tuition if they get suspended.”

“He has a point,” Courfeyrac says, and around them the ABC buzzes back into action.

Enjolras glares at Grantaire for a moment longer before joining them.

*

Finals charge inevitably onward. The library is packed. Grantaire is always hungry and always tired. His steady cocktail of Adderall to stay awake and half a Xanax to fall asleep makes him feel drawn out, like his skin is stretched too tight over his bones, like there's bile always ready to rise into the back of his throat.

He feels, in other words, like shit.

Some nights, he studies with Joly and Bossuet in their suite, at their kitchen table. Bossuet quizzes him on 20th century painters, and Joly quizzes Bossuet on obscure legal terms. Sometimes Musichetta is there, spread out across the floor with her laptop and its two extra screens; and once or twice Cosette comes by, takes over half the table with old problem sets; but more often it's just the three of them and a pizza.

It reminds Grantaire of what it used to be like, before Musichetta entered their lives, before the ABC. When they all just hung out.

He likes it despite the stress, and thinks that's what this place is, liking it despite the stress. Or maybe because of it. It's hard to tell sometimes.

“Warhol,” Grantaire says automatically at a flashcard from Bossuet. “Get a little more complicated, come on—”

“I think you're going to ace this class,” Bossuet says, and they switch over to quizzing Joly on microbiology.

*

Montparnasse's a capella concert is, surprisingly enough, well-attended.

Grantaire and Eponine huddle together in the back of the poorly-heated auditorium to watch, and when Montparnasse blows the pitch pipe and starts beat-boxing, it's actually kind of fun to watch.

“I can't believe they're doing vintage emo,” Grantaire says, laughing, as the group sings a song off Panic! At the Disco's first record. “This is great.”

“--sweetie you _had me_!” the group sings, a haunting chorus that makes Grantaire crave another cigarette.

“This is so fucked up,” Eponine says. “We really shouldn't have come to this. At least not together.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Eponine says. 

She fiddles with the ends of her sleeves. Her nails are freshly painted, a glossy black that looks somehow deep and cavernous. 

“Are you going to Courfeyrac's party tomorrow?”

“I don't know,” Eponine says. “Are you?”

“I don't know, either.”

Eponine laughs. “So you and Enjolras haven't kissed and made up yet?”

“I don't really see that happening in the foreseeable future,” Grantaire says. Around them, Montparnasse leads the group in “Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash.” “He literally hates me.”

“Well, if you weren't an asshole at every given opportunity--”

“I'm not going to lick his ass just because everyone thinks he's so clever and inspirational.”

“You think that, too,” Eponine reminds him. “And you'd probably _enjoy_ licking his ass.”

Montparnasse over-enunciates all the words, the way a cappella teaches you to. Patrick Stump has clearly never been part of an a cappella group. “ _My insides are copper_ ,” the group sings. “ _I'd kill to make them gold—make them gold—make them GOLD_!”

“That's not the point,” Grantaire says. “Sometimes he's just an idiot.”

“Disagreeing with you on the nature of humanity doesn't make him an idiot.”

“No, it just makes him naive,” Grantaire agrees. “He's going to get his heart broken, or get half the ABC suspended, or arrested, or worse.”

Eponine leans over, pats Grantaire's shoulder. “The ABC can make their own choices, asshole. _You_ certainly are.”

“ _I—HAVE—SEEN—SINKING—SHIPS—GO—DOWN—WITH—more grace than yoooooou_ ,” the group croons, and Grantaire plays with the zipper on his hoodie. 

“Does it count as consent when your partner is a drug?” he asks.

“Was that a _Twilight_ quote?”

“Almost.”

Eponine snorts. “Come on, R,” she says. “You have a crush. It's not that serious.”

“I didn't hear you saying that last month.”

“Well, _you_ have a crush. _I_ am the protagonist in a tragic love story, where I and my beloved are star-crossed lovers looking for someone to tell us how much we matter.”

They're both silent for a moment, and then Eponine bursts into laughter. “Sorry,” she says.

“At least you're self-aware,” Grantaire says.

Eponine squeezes his ear affectionately. “One of us has to be.”

*

Grantaire's last final is for Modern Art As A Lens For The Self, otherwise known as: Art History IV. He's wired too tightly for no reason—he's studied hard for this test and knows what's coming, but he's stressed about it anyway, the last modicums of Adderall riddling the corners of his brain. He's so tired that thinking about his last full night of sleep makes him tear up right there in the middle of the lecture hall—it seats 200, but their little class only has 15 people in it, so he's not sure why they've been placed here for the final—and so he has to stop.

The exam is mainly essay-based, but there's a portion of matching and identifications that has Grantaire gnawing on the end of his pencil. He fills in the circles carefully anyway, writes in his explanations with black ink, makes sure his ID number is etched onto the top of every page of his exam booklet. He writes his essays as legibly as possible considering the growing ache in his hands, finishes them with a flourish, and has time to reread and tweak some of his sentences.

A few seats down, Jehan is doodling a massive image of Jesus Christ with Mary on his lap across the pages of his blue book. Grantaire can't figure out if that's an answer to question two-- _Discuss the effects of Renaissance and medieval art on one or more contemporary understandings of the human consciousness_ \--or just a run-of-the-mill Jehanist doodle. In front of him, a girl with blond hair and a tattoo behind her ear has already filled two blue books and is moving on to the third. Grantaire has barely filled the one.

When he hands in the last final of his fifth semester of college, his professor smiles at him.

“Have a good break,” he says. “Good work this semester.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, and breathes a sigh of relief.

*

“Blueberry's kind of a funny word, isn't it?” Bahorel asks.

They're on Courfeyrac's fire escape at the last party of the year, and Bahorel has rolled a set of the most beautiful blunts Grantaire has ever seen, and he won't be tested for another three weeks and so he is smoking up a storm tonight.

“Kind of,” Grantaire says. “Nothing compared to higgledy-biggledy, though.”

“Dude, that's not even a word.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.” 

Bahorel sucks too hard on the end of the blunt and it burns too quickly, or maybe that's just how Grantaire sees it because everything looks sort of sped up right now. He's recovering from his final final, still hopped up on a little bit of Adderall and not nearly enough sleep, and perhaps mixing weed and alcohol with that is a disaster waiting to happen, but then, sometimes Grantaire feels like just walking around normally he's a disaster waiting to happen. 

Grantaire is leaning against the rail, staring inside Courfeyrac's room, where people have started to dance. Grantaire can kind of see his reflection in the glass, translucent, revealing the goings-on within the room. It's a low turn out once again, only Marius and Cosette swaying in one corner while Courfeyrac grinds with Eponine and Jehan in turns, but it's still early enough in the night that there's some hope. 

It's one of those nights, anyway, where everyone on campus is throwing a party. Grantaire imagines that this is kind of what it would be like at the end of the world, everyone separately trying to get as trashed as possible before the morning comes and takes them all. Or maybe it's not, maybe there would be one party to rule them all and in the darkness bind them. Grantaire has no fucking clue, to be honest. He's starting to think his understanding of humanity more and more only exists in opposition to other people's. He can disagree as much as he wants, but as far as he actually believes in anything? Is he even real, or is he just the reflection of every poor naïve sap and overblown asshole he's ever come into contact with? 

The thought becomes overwhelming, and Grantaire turns away from the window, leans over the railing with Bahorel, faces the river.

“Maybe we're all just reflections of each other. A mirror of a mirror of a mirror,” Bahorel says. “Maybe _that's_ human nature.”

“Opposition as human nature,” Grantaire muses. “Sounds bleak.”

“Not really.”

Grantaire turns around. 

“I mean,” Enjolras continues, “if we didn't have opposition we'd never have growth. What is opposition but differing opinions, and what are differing opinions but opportunities for change?”

“But what defines the self if all that defines the self is the other?” Grantaire asks. “Who is the original?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Artists are always overly concerned with the self.”

“And politicians with themselves.”

“I'm not a politician.”

“Then rabble-rousers, with the collective at the expense of the self.”

“Perhaps,” Enjolras admits.

Bahorel has slipped back inside, left Grantaire alone with his blunt and Enjolras on the fire escape, and Grantaire feels suddenly raw and exposed and bitingly angry.

“One day, Enjolras, we'll sit down and write out our world views and discuss them in a civilized manner,” Grantaire says. 

“And why, Grantaire, can we not do that right now? I'm not busy. Are you?”

Beyond then, the room has filled with the rest of the ABC, with some freshmen looking for a party where the alcohol is flowing, with very loud music that appears to have been curated by a combination of Combeferre and Jehan. Enjolras is pressed against Grantaire's side, and his hands shake as he lights a cigarette. It strikes Grantaire that Enjolras probably finished finals today, too.

“How long has it been since you slept?” Grantaire asks.

“I took a four hour nap this afternoon,” Enjolras says. “Before that—who can say?”

“Do you take Adderall, or is it just coffee for your temple?”

“I have an actual Adderall prescription. To go with the Ativan, you know. Addys and Attys.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“I try not to overuse it.”

“Which one?”

Enjolras smiles, small and private, and the bottom of Grantaire's stomach drops. 

“I owe you an apology, I think,” Enjolras says. “I shouldn't have attacked you at the ABC the other day. I was—frustrated.”

“I'm perplexed by you,” Grantaire says, almost by accident.

“Why?”

“You believe in people,” Grantaire says. “But you don't believe in their inherent goodness.”

“I believe that people have an inherent right to life, and to choose what to do with that life,” Enjolras says, apparently relieved that Grantaire has all but ignored his apology. “I believe that the right to life trumps all other rights. I believe that people, regardless of their moral goodness, want and deserve and need that right to life. It doesn't matter if they're inherently good or not.”

“But you don't believe in the right to [liberty, or estate,](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Two_Treatises_of_Government/Book_I#9.) or the pursuit of happiness.”

“John Locke's rhetoric was used to force indigenous peoples off their lands,” Enjolras says. “I believe in the right to freedom, but for me that right is inextricable from that to life, which is the only true human right. Property rights can be useful, but any society built on them is a society doomed to the toxicity of excess. I'm not saying we should all live like monks, but I'm saying that no one should have any luxuries before everyone has all essentials.”

“And by essentials you mean …?”

“Food, water, shelter, adequate health care, a basic education—trade or otherwise. You could add support systems, I suppose, families and friends and such, but that's harder to regulate.” Enjolras puts out his cigarette. “You think that's ridiculous, probably, that we'd all have that.”

Grantaire laughs. “Jesus Christ. You really do want the Revolution.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Don't you?”

“It's a nice idea.” Grantaire exhales, a lungful of smoke temporarily filling the air before them. “Just an unlikely one. People aren't like that. People want _things_ , not freedom. I don't think it makes sense to think otherwise.”

“People keep telling me you're a good guy,” Enjolras says. “But all I see is you, relentlessly mocking me and the ABC and everything I've been working for.”

“It gets tiring, doesn't it,” Grantaire says. “Wanting something and getting mocked for it, getting rejected and ignored.”

Enjolras laughs. It sounds high-pitched, wild, the kind of sound he's never heard before. “I'd like to see _you_ get rejected.”

“Hang out 'til I'm a little drunker. You might be in luck.”

“Please. You have a different person in your bed practically every week.”

“How would you know?”

Enjolras blushes, two spots at the tops of his cheekbones that Grantaire has previously understood to mean he is angry. “I just—you know. I hear things.”

“You _hear things_ ,” Grantaire says. “I thought you were all about freedom of choice, not slut shaming your allies.”

“One,” Enjolras says. “We are not allies. Two: when you say slut shaming, you are implying that I'm shaming someone for being a slut, which is not a real thing that someone can be. Three: I'm not shaming you at all. I'm just saying, you don't seem to get rejected often.”

“Or maybe I just don't reject anyone,” Grantaire says. “Who says I'm the aggressor?”

“Do you always think of sex as predatory?”

“Only when you're implying that I'm a predator.”

“That's not what I said.”

“Isn't it?” Grantaire lights a cigarette, and then so does Enjolras. “I sleep with a lot of people because I like sex. I don't date anyone because I'm not romantically interested in any of the people who will have me. Sometimes the people I sleep with are guys. Sometimes they aren't.”

“Are you just trying to fill some empty, love-shaped hole in your life?”

“Dude, you seriously _are_ slut-shaming me.”

“I'm just trying to figure you out,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire is reminded uncomfortably of Courfeyrac's Halloween party, when they'd been pressed together on the roof and when Enjolras hadn't rejected Grantaire. They'd both been drunk, Grantaire remembers, but it's not—he doesn't think he pressured Enjolras into anything. They didn't even _do_ anything.

“I'm not that complicated,” Grantaire says. 

They're both quiet for a while, watching the people move inside Courfeyrac and Marius's dorm room, and then Grantaire says, “You know Paolo Freire thinks of the revolution as an act of love.”

“I happen to agree with Paolo Freire. The revolution is made by people [to achieve their humanization](http://www.historyisaweapon.com/defcon2/pedagogy/pedagogychapter3.html), right? What else matters? What else is love but humanization?”

Grantaire watches the lines of Enjolras's throat, and thinks that lust is to look at a figure as a statue and want to break it down and love is to look at a statue and want to breathe life into it. He wonders what Enjolras would think of that.

“You look so tired, Apollo,” he says.

Enjolras sighs. “I know.” He turns away from Grantaire, leans over the railing of the fire escape. “I feel like I've been working so hard for so little for so long.”

“Isn't that what life is?” Grantaire says. “You work toward a piece of paper so you can use it to get more pieces of paper, and then you die and most people, the vast majority of people, over 99 percent of people, don't do anything of lasting value. For most of us, it's work and then work and then work some more and then if you're lucky spend a few years somewhere sunny and then it's over and none of it was worth anything. You are not worth more than anyone else, and not very many people are worth very much.”

“That's not true,” Enjolras says. “Plenty of people are worth a lot. People don't exist in terms of absolute values, right, you can't do a quantitative analysis of the human race. People have relative worth. To a stranger you might be worth the same as any other stranger, but to me--”

“To you I'm worth even less.”

“That's not true.”

“You know it is.”

“Grantaire--”

“You look at Apollo, and he looks back at you,” Grantaire says.

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

He finishes his cigarette. Enjolras does, too, and places it tidily in the ash tray someone—probably Marius—has helpfully left out. It's bitingly cold, Grantaire notices, but it feels good cutting through his coat. 

“I'm going inside,” Grantaire says. 

“I'll be in soon,” Enjolras replies, but when Grantaire looks back he sees that Enjolras has already lit another cigarette.

Grantaire's going to leave, but something strikes him suddenly: “Hey. It's cold out here. Come inside.”

Enjolras looks at him, lines of exhaustion or maybe unhappiness pulling at his mouth. “I'm all right,” he says.

The hope that had bubbled up inside Grantaire's stomach vanishes all at once, leaves him feeling like the cold air has at last fully penetrated his layers of clothing. “Okay,” he says. “I'll see you in a bit, then.”

Enjolras, not looking at him, nods.

*

Montparnasse texts him, but Grantaire ignores it. He finds another random on Grindr, one who happens to live in the building adjacent to Courfeyrac and Marius's, and hooks up with him instead.

It's not even a little bit fun, even though the random does all the bitey and hair-pully things that Grantaire likes, and afterward Grantaire showers and leaves even though it's late in the night.

He spends the whole next day watching Netflix in his bed, leaving only to pick up the pizza he's ordered. He drinks his last stock of wine, and figures that it's about time he switch back to stronger beverages anyway, and sketches one of the characters from _Parks and Rec_ in his sketchbook, and ignores all his texts.

*

Grantaire dreams that he and Eponine and Cosette are Cerberus, guarding the gates of the underworld and lulled to sleep by a blond Orpheus playing a typewriter that sounds like a broken harp.

“Where did you learn what a harp sounds like?” asks Enjolras, and Grantaire wakes up in a cold sweat.

*

It is snowing on the train ride back to New Jersey.

Grantaire has Snapchats to look at and text messages to reply to and a copy of _10:04_ in his lap, but instead he's staring out the window at the gradually suburbanizing landscape before him. It is always uncanny, to watch the setting switch from skyscrapers to McMansions to mobile homes and back again. Doubly so when they are all covered in a dense layer of snow, as if the earth has decided that even the rich will not be spared, not this time.

He reads one of Montparnasse's editorials, all angry rhetoric about affirmative action and its treatment of Asian-American men, and is surprised to find how much he agrees with it. He's never thought of Montparnasse as particularly pro-social justice, but the comments on the page speak to something else: Montparnasse is good at getting clicks. That's why he's the editor of the digital edition of the newspaper, and that's why he has thousands of twitter followers, and that's why he's going to work for Buzzfeed or something after he graduates. He knows how to get people riled, Montparnasse does. He keeps trying to get Grantaire to write an op-ed on the art world, and Grantaire keeps resisting, but sometimes he feels like he's one argument with a professor away.

The snow outside falls, and Grantaire doodles something kind of cubist, kind of abstract into his sketchpad. The ink presses into the pages, leaves an imprint on the paper beneath. Grantaire's hand rocks with the movements of the train, and the lines all look uneven, messy. He thinks about Enjolras, frantically vacating New York, boarding a private jet with his rich parents and landing somewhere tropical. He wonders if Enjolras tans in the sun, or if he burns. He wonders if Enjolras freckles. He wonders if Enjolras remembers to wear sunscreen, and if so, what SPF he prefers. 

Grantaire swallows.

Eponine and Gavroche are staying at school over Christmas, so Grantaire has to face his family alone. It shouldn't be so stressful, this idea, except that it is, and Grantaire swallows a Xanax as the train nears his stop.

Grantaire's mind slips into numbness around the exact time that he gets into his mom's car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I must apologize for lateness. I've been traveling a lot over the last few weeks, and somewhere in that time my computer decided it'd rather like a dunk in the tub, so I'm working off a dropbox file and various semi-public computers at the moment. It's hard for me to say when the next update will be, but the next few chapters are completely planned out and I do hope to be back on schedule as soon as I'm home and re-laptopped.
> 
>  
> 
> Endnotes (please let me know if I've forgotten to source anything/if any links are broken/if you think there's a better way to do this): 
> 
> “Art is suffering” is something Squidward said on [an episode of Spongebob](http://spongebob.wikia.com/wiki/Slimy_Dancing_\(transcript\)). The semester ends not with a bang etc references Eliot's “[The Hollow Men](http://aduni.org/~heather/occs/honors/Poem.htm)” (link to cool hypertext version).
> 
> Montparnasse's a cappella group sings Panic! At the Disco's [“Lying Is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AZxUtZ2ZgI) and Fall Out Boy's [“Sending Postcards From a Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here)”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zynsj_u0E4). The title of this chapter is also from that song. In my imagination, they also probably play Taking Back Sunday's [“MakeDamnSure”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ldjbjwim4k).
> 
> Locke's philosophies are from the _[Two Treatises on Government](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Two_Treatises_of_Government/)_. More on how that rhetoric was used to colonize the Americas [here](http://www.cambridgescholars.com/download/sample/59280), but it's pretty easily google-able and also inferable from the text of the treatises. Revolution as an act of love is from Freire's _[Pedagogy of the Oppressed](http://www.historyisaweapon.com/defcon2/pedagogy/index.html)_. 
> 
> “You look at Apollo” is from Ursula LeGuin's _Myth and Archetype in Science Fiction_ , [this passage of which](https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Ursula_K._Le_Guin#Quotes) discusses Rainer Maria Rilke and the god Apollo. Oddly fitting, considering one of Grantaire's many tattoos is the untranslated text of “[You Who Never Arrived](https://audiopoetry.wordpress.com/2006/04/04/you-who-never-arrived/).”


	7. january; or, the new year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homophobic slurs in this chapter. Very very very vague allusions to child abuse. I'm talking, like, you could probably guess that it had happened but nothing at all is explicit.

Grantaire feels perforated, like someone could lightly tug at bits of him and they'd come floating off.

He wakes up hungover on New Year's Day, flung across some international freshman's bed after a night that included a return to New York, gate-crashing a rooftop party with Montparnasse and Eponine, feeling supremely awkward at midnight when Montparnasse and Eponine kissed and Grantaire made out with a random stranger, and a silent cab ride back uptown.

Luckily, Grantaire had full access to Grindr, and so he'd found one of the few people still on campus. The freshman had eagerly told him that he'd decided to stay in New York for New Year's, that he'd done the Times Square thing, that he felt like a real American now because he officially hated all things tourist.

Grantaire smiled and kissed him, mainly to shut up him up.

The freshman is up already, tucked into his desk chair and scrolling through Reddit.

“Morning,” Grantaire says sleepily.

The freshman turns around. “Morning,” he says. He's English, actually English, not Montparnasse's fake accent English.

“Do you have any coffee?”

“Only Nescafe, I'm afraid,” the freshman says. “We've got tea, too, if you're interested. And a shower.”

Grantaire laughs. “I get it,” he says. “I smell horrible. But at least I didn't spend eighteen hours in Times Square yesterday.”

“Can't believe you remember that,” the freshman says. “You weren't exactly in your right mind.”

“Neither were you.”

“Yes, but I didn't consume a post-coital bottle of wine.”

“Only 'cause you're too young to buy one.”

“Fair,” the freshman says. “Go on, brush your teeth, rinse off, I'll make you coffee and toast.”

Grantaire does, and when he returns to the room the freshman is sitting on his bed again, balancing two mugs and a stack of toast precariously atop his comforter.

“You made your bed.”

“We can mess it up again, if you like.”

Grantaire laughs, eats the toast gratefully. His phone, which the freshman rather sweetly plugged in while Grantaire was sleeping, is exploding with Happy New Year! snapchats and texts and facebook messages and a series of whatsapp messages from his more internationally-inclined friends and relatives. He scrolls through them (ignoring, of course, the irritating thumping of his heart when he notices Enjolras's even though it's frustratingly simple, just a whatsapp'd _happy new year grantaire_ ) while the freshman clears away their breakfast things. Then, Grantaire sends out a mass snap of himself with his head on the pillow and fireworks doodled around his ears and hair.

This sparks a new series of texts, messages, and snaps:

Jehan, via text: _your hair looks foul but in a hot way. overdue for a trim i think. miss u all the way from 'zona <3 _

Bossuet snaps a picture of himself in yet another cast, accompanied by the caption: _dont worry, doc says i'll be good for next meet_

Joly, via whatsapp because he's visiting Musichetta's family in Senegal: _that is rather unabashedly NOT your pillow sir_

Cosette, via iMessage: _when did u get rid of the floral pillowcases? can i snag?_

Which makes no sense, because all of Cosette's pillowcases are made of satin for her hair, and Grantaire's jersey one is definitely not Cosette-appropriate.

Courfeyrac pulls no punches via text: _sick hickey dude miss u come see me & ferre in dc!!!_

Combeferre, via Facebook message: _courfeyrac is super annoying but yeah we're in dc w bahorel & feuilly rn and jehan is joining soon come thru_

Montparnasse, via group chat with Eponine: _where tf are u thought we were gonna do dim sum_

Eponine, via group chat with Montparnasse: _meet us at the 1 in fifteen min & shower ur disgusting ass_

Feuilly, via Snapchat: a photograph of himself and Bahorel beaming at the camera with a DC geofilter stretched over them.

“Hey,” Grantaire says to the freshman. “Hey, I actually have to go.”

“Do you?” the freshman asks, sounding more than a little disappointed. “Well—all right, but--” and here he blushes adorably “--can you show me where to catch the bus to LaGuardia?”

Grantaire laughs, pulls his hat low over his ears, and directs the freshman toward the bus stop.

*

When they were drinking, Grantaire didn't notice, but now that he's sitting with Eponine and Montparnasse at a round table tucked into the corner of a busy dim sum restaurant in Queens, he realizes:

Something has changed between them all. It's there in the pauses between bits of dialogue, there in the reaches for the last dumpling, there when Montparnasse asks the server if the chicken feet are extra. It's there in the split seconds between the jokes and their punchlines, and it's present in every smile or nod or oddly searching stare.

It is, Grantaire thinks when he's digging into what feels like his tenth piece of tofu shrimp, really fucking awkward.

Eponine echoes this sentiment later, when the two of them and Gavroche are all sitting in Eponine's dorm room, Gavroche binge-watching something on Grantaire's Netflix account while Grantaire sketches all of them and Eponine leans back against the wall, talking shit while her fingers choreograph a dance on an iPad.

“It's gotten kind of weird, hasn't it?” she says. “With Montparnasse?”

“Uh,” Grantaire says, darkening Eponine's hair with his charcoal. “It's gotten _really_ fucking weird, dude.”

“I keep forgetting that you two aren't really friends.”

“Yeah, he's pretty much my dealer and occasional hook up,” Grantaire says. “That's what it's always been like. That's maybe why it's weird when we _actually hang out_.”

“But we used to be able to like, go out together and not have it be awkward, right?” Eponine frowns, pausing her choreography and looking up at Grantaire. “Did I just make that up?”

Grantaire shrugs. “We were stoned all the time freshman year and it was fine. But I mean, I wasn't hooking up with him and you were still--” He stops, looks at Eponine a little apologetically. “You know.”

“It's just weird.”

Eponine throws her head back and drinks from her Gatorade, neck a long, pale column.

“Yeah, you said that.” Grantaire finishes drawing Gavroche's hat, which is pulled down low over his curly hair and which Grantaire is certain used to belong to him. “Maybe it was just awkward because we didn't talk about Enjolras or Marius and it was like, this huge pink weird fucked up elephant in the room.”

“Ha, you said 'fuck',” Gavroche says, having apparently tuned out of his TV show without taking his earbuds out.

Eponine throws the pillow she's leaning on at him. “Don't eavesdrop. It's rude.”

“Not eavesdropping if I'm in the _same room_ ,” Gavroche says, sticking his tongue out.

Eponine rolls her eyes. “Fair enough. Can you give me that pillow back?”

Gavroche stretches on the bed like a cat, pressing his head against the pillow. “Nope.”

“Gav _roche_ ...”

“Will you take me out for ice cream later?”

“It's _January_.”

Gavroche shrugs; Eponine sighs.

“Yeah, sure,” she says. “We'll all go out for ice cream later.”

“Nah, it's okay,” Gavroche says, returning the pillow. “Just wanted to see how bad you wanted it.”

“Kid's turning into a pretty good con man,” Grantaire says, and immediately regrets it when Eponine scowls. “Sorry,” he amends.

“No, it's fine,” Eponine says. “He's not, anyway. He's going to go to college, and then he's going to get a good job somewhere, and then he's going to change his last name so the Thenardiers never come asking for money.”

“I could be Gavroche Wayne,” Gavroche says. “Or Gavroche Kent—no, wait, Gavroche Prince, like Wonder Woman--”

“He's having a DC phase,” Eponine says, which Grantaire already knows because he smuggled his parents a Santa letter from Gavroche that had requested, among other things, Batman sheets and Wonder Woman pajamas. His parents were charmed and, despite not actually celebrating Christmas, sent Grantaire back with a bundle of gifts for Gavroche.

“Gavroche Grayson,” Gavroche says. “People could call me GG for short, like in Shahs of Sunset--”

“I thought you were watching educational cartoons,” Eponine says, glowering, and Gavroche chuckles and returns to Netflix.

*

Grantaire returns home the next day, Gavroche in tow—he's staying in New Jersey for the last week before his public middle school starts up again while Eponine pulls double shifts at the library, and Grantaire's plans mainly involve taking him sledding and introducing him to the neighbor's dogs.

His parents, though, are delighted at having another child in the house—Grantaire's grandmother in particular seizes the opportunity to teach Gavroche some Arabic. Surprisingly, the kid has a good hold on French--“Parents are French-Canadian,” Gavroche tells Grantaire, which is more than Eponine's ever said—and it only takes a little manipulating to get to Algerian dialect.

Mostly, Grantaire and Gavroche spend their days learning some traditional Algerian cooking, watching TV on the couch, and drinking cocoa. Grantaire has to laugh at how charmed his parents are when Gavroche cleans up after himself.

“You're good,” he tells Gavroche, and Gavroche actually smiles in response, small and shy.

“They're really nice,” he says, and Grantaire feels a tugging in his chest that makes his eyes feel warm, like he's about to cry, and he's not quite sure why.

On the train ride back to New York, Gavroche falls asleep against the window, curled in on himself, and he looks so tiny that Grantaire wants to throw up at the injustice of it all. He thinks about how little he talks to his parents, and how quickly they took a liking to Gavroche, and thinks that maybe he should start painting more portraits of the people he loves and fewer of statues and rivers.

*

It's another week and a half before classes start, but boxing returns in earnest, and Grantaire's life quickly goes from lazy morning runs followed by lazy days followed, occasionally, by lazy weight-lifting to full days of exercise. He hasn't spent this much time around exclusively other guys in ages, and he's forgotten how awful it can be.

Davy calls Bossuet a fag for sitting practice out with his arm injury, and Grantaire is next to spar with him, and he fucks up and hits Davy way too hard in the face.

“What the fuck, Grantaire?” Davy says, nursing a bloody nose. “Coach said _block_ , Jesus--”

“Dude, fag is a fucking slur,” Grantaire says. “Stop being an asshole.”

“Is Bossuet your boyfriend?”

“Seriously, dude?” Grantaire says. “Are we twelve?”

There's a silence during which Davy holds his own t-shirt up to his face, and then: “Sorry, bro. I wasn't thinking about it.”

“Well,” Grantaire says, slightly surprised. “Fucking think about it next time, then.”

Davy nods, pulls off his gloves, holds out a hand. Grantaire takes his off, too, hits his hand against Davy's, lets Davy pull him in for a hug.

“Good hustle,” Coach says, clapping both of them on the back.

 

*

Joly: _we cant go to tall boys anymore—they got a b rating & im just not trying to die_

Bossuet: _all the best restaurants have B ratings_

Musichetta: _its actually ridiculously easy to get an A, so it's pretty shitty when restaurants dont—but its really political & economic like you have no clue—if I were tall boys i'd put up a fight—we should look into it_

Grantaire: _shame. their happy hour was good. miss u <3_

 

 

*

Enjolras never does reply to Grantaire's Happy New Year snap, but an email pops up in Grantaire's inbox a few days before the semester starts announcing the next ABC meeting and calling for ideas.

Grantaire finds himself smiling at the words, thinking about how he's a “core member” now or something according to Enjolras. A moment later, he decides he's very lucky that Eponine isn't in his room right now, because he looks absolutely fucking ridiculous.

 

*

Most of the ABC is back a day or two before the start of the semester, and Joly and Bossuet invite everyone over for what Musichetta calls a “wine potluck,” which involves everyone bringing over snacks and bottles of wine and spreading out all over the floor in Joly and Bossuet's living area.

Grantaire gets there early, helps Joly and Bossuet clean up, and gets to work picking out the perfect potluck playlist. There's a lot of Mountain Goats and Nick Cave on there. Like, a lot.

“Dude, are you okay?” Bossuet says, scrolling through the songs. “'[No Children](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRP6egIEABk)'? I mean, really?”

“And '[O Children](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQL5zdEy-3k)',” Grantaire says. “I thought it was cute.”

“It's not cute,” Musichetta says.

“Do we need to be worried about you?” Joly says. “Are you sleeping okay? Do you have Seasonal Affective Disorder? Are you taking a vitamin D supplement? Do you want a recommendation?”

“ _That's_ cute,” Musichetta says.

“No, no, probably, no, yes please,” Grantaire says. “Fine, I'll add some Lana Del Rey.”

“Lana Del--”

“ _Heaven is a place on earth with you_ \--” Musichetta sings, and her voice is surprisingly good, and Grantaire joins in.

“This is kind of hot,” Bossuet says. “Guys, Grantaire totally took down Davy Wilcox in practice the other day for gratuitous use of homophobic slurs.”

“ _That's_ kind of hot,” Musichetta says, scooching closer to Grantaire to refill his wineglass and criticize his playlist some more. “Can you add some Twin Shadow?”

Grantaire does, mixes in a little M.I.A. for diversity, and hits shuffle on Spotify.

“Ugh, don't shuffle,” Combeferre says. “It messes with the integrity of the playlist-creators' choices.”

“Whoa,” Grantaire says. “When did you get here?”

“Somewhere between your Lana Del Rey serenade and you committing the greatest sin known to mixtape-creators.”

“Since when do you know mixtapes?”

Combeferre scoffs. “I'll have you know I'm a certified DJ.”

“You have to be certified to be a DJ?”

“You do when you're as good at it as I am,” Combeferre says, sitting on Grantaire's other side.

Joly slides Combeferre a glass of wine, too, and Combeferre drinks it quickly, gets another.

“Do you mind?” he asks, hands hovering over Grantaire's keyboard.

“Go for it,” Grantaire says.

“It's just—I want to respect another DJ's territory, you know?”

Grantaire laughs. “Dude, I have literally never seen you this chill. Did you like, smoke a bowl before coming here or something?”

“I did,” Combeferre says. “But also, like? No classes? No work? Internship doesn't start for two weeks?” Combeferre reorders some of the songs, adds some Weeknd, some Arctic Monkeys. “I'm having a great time.”

“Did you smoke alone?”

“No, I smoked with Bahorel and Courfeyrac—they're here somewhere, I think,” Combeferre says, as if they're in some huge house instead of a tiny, rapidly overheating living room in one of the nicer residence halls on campus. He is singularly focused on the playlist, it would seem. “Can I add some cool remixes? Would that fuck with the vibe too much?”

“Dude, please do you,” Grantaire says. “You are so much cooler high.”

“That's what Jehan keeps telling me,” Combeferre says.

“Where _is_ Jehan?”

“On his way. Went to get wine with Enjolras and Feuilly. Where's Eponine?”

“She gets out of work soon,” Grantaire says.

“Hm,” Combeferre says, sliding an old remix of an old Marina song onto the playlist. “What about her brother?”

“Currently taking a nap in my room,” Grantaire says. “I think Eponine's probably going to get him after this party. Or he might just crash with me, whatever.”

“Their relationship is so sweet,” Combeferre says. “I wish I were that close with _my_ siblings.”

“I mean, they've had to be really close,” Grantaire says. “It wasn't like—I mean, they argue and stuff, but she's more like his mom.”

“Yeah, I guess I don't have that relationship with any of my sisters,” Combeferre says. “Do you like Azealia Banks?”

“I wanted to throw '212' on there, but it didn't really fit the vibe of this chill hang, you know.”

“She has other songs, though,” Combeferre says, adding some. “And let's get some Palestinian indie in here to restore the chill ...”

“Dude, can you like, make all your playlists public?” Grantaire says. “Seriously, like--”

Combeferre smiles. “Add me on Spotify,” Combeferre says. “Seriously, follow me.”

“Grantaire, can you help me open bottles?” Musichetta asks, and Grantaire turns his laptop fully over to Combeferre, pulls his bottle opener out of his pocket, and goes to join her.

“You want to open them all now?”

“Some of the reds need to aerate, and I don't really want to throw them all in the blender. We'll leave the whites closed.”

Grantaire gets to work opening bottles with her. Together, they make short work of it, and Musichetta laughs when Grantaire pulls out Bossuet's cocktail shaker.

“I think we deserve something stronger for our hard work, no?” he asks.

“Don't tell me you want to turn this into some kind of bartending competition,” Musichetta says. “I'll have you know, I tend bar _six nights a week_ \--you are literally a rookie compared to me.”

“Is that a 'no' on cosmos then?”

Musichetta refills Grantaire's glass with cabernet and winks. “Maybe later. Get the door?”

Grantaire does even though he didn't hear anyone knocking, checking his phone to see if Eponine has texted.

“Uh—are you going to move?”

Grantaire looks up. Feuilly is smiling at him, ears tinged red from the cold, and next to him Jehan is holding a plate of Italian cookies out like an offering.

“Hi,” Grantaire says, moving aside so they can come in.

Behind them, Grantaire almost misses, is Enjolras, who, it turns out, freckles in the sun. He follows Jehan and Feuilly in, unbuttons his massive coat to reveal that same dark red sweater from the day they met. It clashes with the freckles. His hair looks lighter for some reason, and it's longer now, just as unruly as Grantaire's has gotten, but Enjolras's is braided in that signature Jehan fishtail and not just pulled into a haphazard bun. Grantaire swallows.

“How was your break?” Grantaire says, and Enjolras turns and opens his mouth as if to answer, but then he's tackled from behind by Courfeyrac, who shouts into his ear, and then Combeferre envelops Enjolras in a hug, too, and Grantaire exhales through his teeth and returns to the kitchen island to chug and then refill his glass.

“R, get over here!” Jehan calls. “I have a Magic Box with your name on it.”

Grantaire refills his glass again, grabs a bottle, and climbs over the couch to where Jehan is sitting in the corner, hard at work at packing the vape.

“Thank fuck,” Grantaire says. “We got tested yesterday, so--”

“Good,” Jehan says. “You wanna go first?”

“Nah, it's your vape,” Grantaire says.

They do a few hits off it, lean against the wall, survey their friends milling about and saying hello.

“How was your break? Make anything cool?”

“I sketched my entire family,” Grantaire says. “I kind of missed doing normal portraits.”

“You mean non-Apollean portraits?”

Grantaire laughs, does another hit. “Sure.”

“Whoa, you guys are being completely uncool right now,” Bahorel says, settling down beside Grantaire with Courfeyrac in tow. “Share.”

“Help yourselves,” Jehan says, offering the box. “Seriously. I have a ton more in my bag, too. Not a felonious amount, though, don't worry.”

“Dude, your shirt is incredible,” Bahorel says. “People keep telling me you have a butterfly thing, but--”

“How does everyone know about my butterfly thing?” Grantaire says. “I get _one tattoo_ , and--”

“You have a butterfly tattoo?” Courfeyrac says. “Where is it? Can we see?”

“It's on my back,” Grantaire says, tugging his sweater off by the collar and turning around. “But it's half a moth, so--”

“Wow, your back is incredible,” Bahorel says. “Seriously, like--”

“I mean--” Grantaire says, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. “I'm an athlete, so--”

“I meant the tats,” Bahorel says. “But that too. Impressive.”

“I didn't know the tree branch went all the way around,” Jehan says. “That's awesome.”

Grantaire feels his cheeks heat up. “Yeah, it was--”

“What language is this? German?”

“Yeah, it's Rilke.”

“This is awesome, seriously.”

“Why's Grantaire naked?” Bossuet asks from behind him.

Grantaire turns. “They want to scope my ill tats,” he says. “Did you know I had a skater phase?”

“Ugh,” Bahorel says. “Of course you did.”

“Don't 'ugh' me,” Grantaire says. “I saw that longboard under your bed that day--”

Bahorel laughs. Across the room, Enjolras looks up from his conversation with Feuilly and Combeferre. His eyes meet Grantaire's, and then drop to Grantaire's chest, and then look quickly away. Grantaire swallows.

“Give me my sweater back,” Grantaire says.

“You know,” Jehan says. “Enjolras said your obsession with butterflies was adorable.”

“What?”

“Yep,” Courfeyrac says. “I've known the kid for three years and it's the first time I've ever heard him call something anything more than 'aesthetically adequate'.”

“What?”

“Yep,” Jehan says.

“Yep,” Courfeyrac says.

“Are you two double-teaming me right now?”

“As tempting as that idea sounds--”

“--we have eyes only for each other--”

“--and the occasional female third--”

“--who we usually find on Tinder--”

“--and show the pleasure of two gay men.”

“Since when are you two a thing?”

“We're not,” Courfeyrac says. “It's all part of our bit.”

“Your bit?”

“Yeah,” Jehan says. “Comedy, you know, helps us discern what is right.” But he fiddles with his vape, not meeting Grantaire's eyes.

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “I'm getting another drink, anyone want?”

Both Jehan and Courfeyrac raise their hands. As usual, Grantaire exits a conversation with Jehan and Courfeyrac more confused than he entered it. He wanders off toward the kitchen-island-come-makeshift-bar to get another bottle of wine.

It shouldn't surprise him, he supposes, that Enjolras is standing there, looking at a two-step bottle opener like it's a particularly difficult lateral thinking problem. He looks up when Grantaire gets there, something like shock on his face. He has taken off his sweater to reveal a very thin white t-shirt, and Grantaire is surprised to see both that Enjolras sweats and that he owns shirts sheer enough to show his nipples. Grantaire's throat goes very dry.

“Hey,” Grantaire manages.

“I like your tattoo,” Enjolras says. “Jehan keeps talking about how, like, [butterflies represent souls](http://ovid.lib.virginia.edu/trans/Metamorph15.htm#488378553) or whatever--”

He trails off, looks back at the bottle opener.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says.

They stand there awkwardly, and then they both go for the same bottle of wine, and it's almost like some stupid rom com except that Enjolras can barely stand to be in Grantaire's vicinity and Grantaire isn't exactly some swarthy hero-type.

“My bad,” Grantaire says. “I was just--”

“I was going to open--”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras stares at him. The tops of his cheeks have gone pink.

“You do it,” Enjolras says. “You're good with these waiter openers.”

Grantaire laughs. “Bartending license, you know. You have to know how to do it.”

“I'm useless at it,” Enjolras admits. “I can barely use the regular ones.”

“Want me to show you?” Grantaire asks.

“Uh—okay,” Enjolras says. He frowns suddenly, looks back up at Grantaire. “Do you--”

“Here, you take that one, I'll take this one.”

Enjolras falls silent, which Grantaire is pretty sure he's never seen before. He takes the bottle opener and waits.

“Cut off the foil first, and then just like, peel it off—like, tuck the knife under the foil and just kind of push--”

Enjolras actually laughs. “Thanks, but I think I can figure out _that_ part for myself, at least.”

“You'd be surprised,” Grantaire says.

“Okay, so what's next?”

“Just like, twist the corkscrew into the cork—it's a little harder than with one of the other kinds because you don't have that little twisty thing, but you can use the handle part, it's not too bad.”

Enjolras watches Grantaire do it, and then he does it too, but he twists off-center at an awkward diagonal.

“Careful,” Grantaire says. “Try to get more central--”

Enjolras makes a sharp movement with the corkscrew, and the cork breaks, the top half dangling off precariously while the bottom half threatens to sink into the wine.

“Whoops,” Enjolras says, which is just about the last word Grantaire expected to come out of his mouth, and so of course he can't stop himself from laughing. He laughs and laughs, laughs until it is positively ridiculous that no one has intervened to check that he hasn't absolutely lost it, and then laughs some more.

“Jesus,” he gasps, dizzy and wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Can you like,” Enjolras says, having watched Grantaire with a faint look of amusement on his face. “Like, can you fix it?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Grantaire says, and then bursts into laughter again.

This time, Enjolras joins him, setting the bottle down and leaning against the counter to put his head in his hands. For a moment, Grantaire thinks he's upset, but then Enjolras's shoulders start shaking and genuine laughter comes out of his mouth, loud and boisterous in a way Grantaire hasn't ever associated with him.

“Are you two okay?”

Grantaire looks up: Musichetta has come to check on them, her head cocked to the side so that her long braids sway and fall against her hip.

“Sorry,” Granatire says. “Enjolras is just like—really bad at opening wine.”

“I got nervous!” Enjolras protests, and then both of them collapse into laughter again.

“Right,” Musichetta says. “Well—the rest of us wanted to get into this chardonnay, so ...”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. “Sorry—here, let me finish opening mine--”

He hands her the bottle, then turns to Enjolras's.

“Can't we just push the cork in?” Enjolras says.

“ _No_ ,” Musichetta says.

For some reason, that makes them both laugh again, sharp giggles, and Musichetta rolls her eyes, takes the opened bottle, and leaves.

“Men,” Grantaire is pretty sure he hears her mumble as she walks off, and _that_ only makes him laugh harder, lean against the counter next to Enjolras.

Their laughter dies out eventually, and Enjolras bumps his shoulder up closer to Grantaire's.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Grantaire says.

“How was your break?” Enjolras says.

“It was okay. I've been back for a while for boxing. I was mostly just home before that.”

“Not for New Year's, though?”

“No, Eponine and I came here and celebrated with a friend. How did you know?”

“Someone must have mentioned it,” Enjolras says. “You don't live too far?”

“I'm from New Jersey,” Grantaire says, making a face. “Don't be grossed out.”

“But I am,” Enjolras says. “Disgusted. Repulsed. Did you vote for Christie?”

“What? No, obviously I didn't vote for fucking Christie.”

“Did you vote against him?”

“No,” Grantaire admits. “I didn't vote.”

“When people don't vote--” Enjolras starts.

“Christie won the 2013 election with 61 percent of the popular vote. In my district, he lost, 78 to 21. Tell me again how my not voting had absolutely any effect on that outcome.”

“Fair enough,” Enjolras starts. “You have to understand, though—the democratic process, and our participation in it, is essential to--”

“ _You_ have to understand that starting a sentence with 'you have to understand' is super fucking condescending and you shouldn't do it to people unless you're trying to make them think you're an asshole.”

Enjolras freezes. His hands hang in the air, suspended, before dropping to his sides. His knuckles brush against Grantaire's thigh, and Grantaire inhales sharply and holds it. He turns around, finishes opening Enjolras's fucked up bottle of wine just to give his hands something to do.

“Right,” Enjolras says eventually. “You're right. Sometimes I don't consider that people know what they're doing even when they make a decision I disagree with.”

Grantaire blinks. “What?”

“Sometimes I don't consider--”

“No, I'm just—I don't think you've ever changed your opinion because of me before.”

“Sometimes you're right,” Enjolras says. His face changes suddenly: an eyebrow rises delicately; he sucks in one cheek and slightly purses his lips. “I mean, it was bound to happen eventually.”

It strikes Grantaire that Enjolras is fucking _teasing_ him. _Flirting_ with him, even.

“Or maybe it's been happening, and you just haven't been able to get it through your thick head.” Grantaire raps the side of Enjolras's head with a closed fist, and the contact is barely there again, just knuckles against hair, and Grantaire still feels like he can't breathe. Or feels it again. He's not sure.

“Heads aren't thick, Combeferre says,” Enjolras says. “Or skulls? I don't really—anatomy isn't my thing.”

“That disagreement makes sense to you, though.”

“It's a matter of opinion. Some people think anatomy is boring.”

“Some people think political participation is futile.”

“That's not the same thing, which I'm pretty sure you know.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Maybe I don't.”

“Why do you pretend you're dumb all the time?”

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire says. “I pretend to be like eight times as smart as I am like ninety percent of the time.”

Enjolras huffs. “Bullshit,” he says. “I see right through you.”

“Do you?” Grantaire quirks the corner of his lips up, feels the twist of his mouth, scrunches up his eyes so he doesn't look like his grimacing. He's never been so aware of the micro-movements of his face, of the way if he moves his mouth just right he can make a dimple show up in his right cheek. He does it now, and Enjolras steps closer.

“Hey,” Enjolras says again.

Grantaire stares at him, examines the planes of his face, the shapes that combine to form something more than themselves, something altogether unfair in its complexity. In its beauty.

“Would it be really stupid,” Grantaire says, “if I told you that you had an eyelash right now?”

Enjolras blinks. “I have a lot of eyelashes.”

“No, I mean--” Grantaire stops, laughs. “Never mind.”

It strikes him that this means Enjolras has apparently never watched a romantic comedy before. It also strikes him that he has gotten completely fucking ridiculous in the last few months, and he really needs to get his shit together.

“Can I ask you something?” Enjolras says. “Seriously? Don't make jokes, just answer?”

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “I mean, I can answer, but I can't guarantee that I won't make fun of you.”

“I guess that's good enough.”

There's a silence, and Grantaire waits, but Enjolras just looks at him, and then finally:

“You call me out on everything.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. His heart hammers in his throat. He suddenly wishes he could add a Xanax to his combination of weed and alcohol. “I kind of think someone has to.”

“No, Combeferre and Courfeyrac tell me when they think I'm wrong about something. But you even challenge me when everyone else agrees with me.”

“I bring a different perspective to the table.”

“But it's not just different. It's actively conflicting.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not exactly. It's just odd that you'd continue to associate with someone with whom you can't find any common ground.”

“Well, you are the president of a club that most of my best friends are part of.”

“Everyone likes you. It's so weird.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, his stomach sinking. “I agree. It is pretty weird.”

“That's not what I meant—I just--”

“No, it's fine. You can't comprehend that someone would be friends with someone like me, and you especially can't comprehend that your over-achieving ABC members would deign to associate with an athlete whose entire presence at this school is due to a combination of affirmative action and luck. That's fine.”

Grantaire rummages around for the bottle of rum he knows is in the cabinet above the sink, and when he finds it, he drinks directly from the bottle before filling his glass.

“That's not what I meant,” Enjolras says again.

“What did you mean, then? Either I'm too dumb for your friends, or I'm some horrible person who you can't imagine anyone liking—what else is there?”

Enjolras opens his mouth and then closes it again. It's funny, because Grantaire has so rarely seen him at a loss for words. He has the urge to throw his drink in Enjolras's face, and then decides that life really doesn't have to be that melodramatic.

“It's fine,” Grantaire says, deflating, all the fight gone out of him. “I get it. I'll stop bothering you.”

He refills his glass and decides to rescue Jehan, who is smoking in the corner with Courfeyrac and Bahorel and giving Bahorel fairly pointed looks.

The doorbell rings, and Grantaire opens it, expecting to see only Eponine.

“Hey,” she says, a little apologetically.

Beside her, Montparnasse and his gang of newspaper assholes are carrying more bottles of hard liquor. Montparnasse has a giant baggy of weed that he offers to Bossuet, who accepts it cheerily.

“Sorry,” Eponine whispers. “They got out of a meeting and came to pick me up at work—I couldn't shake them.”

“The more the merrier!” Bossuet says, spreading his arms wide and splashing red wine everywhere.

“Make me a cocktail, R,” Montparnasse says.

He slides his arms around Grantaire's waist, tucks his head against Grantaire's neck, and kisses one of the spots there that he knows Grantaire likes.

“I missed you,” he says.

Grantaire wrenches away, searching the room for Enjolras—but Enjolras is already engrossed in a new conversation with Combeferre and Feuilly, and once Feuilly gets involved there's no telling how long they're going to circle around the goods and bads of socialism (“Only when it's _corrupted_ does it become _corrupt_ , you see--” “--but if it always _corrupts_ , how can it be valid?” “What we have here is—forgive me—a chicken or egg type of situation ...”), and so Grantaire sighs.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, and Montparnasse's smile only falters a little.

 

*

Grantaire sneaks out of Montparnasse's bed before sunrise, feeling inexplicably dirty. He doesn't know why Enjolras always makes him _snap_ like that—maybe it's the hope that finally, _finally_ Enjolras has decided that Grantaire is someone worth knowing, and then the realization that Grantaire is, in fact, unequivocally _not_ worth knowing. He doesn't like that Enjolras can make him feel like that. He doesn't want to need validation from him. He has enough of that from his art professors.

Grantaire falls asleep standing up in the shower and wakes up with his skin all pruny, and then he goes to his bed, shoves Gavroche over a little, and sleeps some more.

 

*

_dude—you can't go on without knowing how to open a bottle. this is a super helpful youtube video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLp96hs9Rl4_

_Read: 12:43 p.m._

 

*

The day classes start, Grantaire gets an email from his advisor—it's a forward from Professor Klein, who still seems to be under the impression that Grantaire plans on showing at his gallery this summer.

Grantaire ignores it and goes to the lecture he's TA-ing, a job a professor offered him that features a pay raise and better hours than his library job. All he has to do is go to lecture and grade some papers. He's also supposed to have office hours, and since it's an intro class, he's pretty sure the overeager freshmen will utilize them to their fullest.

He listens to the professor babble about famous art historians and how the whole point of art history is often debated—about how the course is really about the _critique_ of art history _itself_ and not merely a _survey_ , for how could one cover _a generation_ let alone an _era_ or even worse _the entire span of art_ in one semester?--and taps away at his laptop, downloading all the readings for one of his other classes, adding a few other books to his Amazon cart, throwing in a handbook on different styles of South Asian dance for fun. Then, he uploads some of the readings for this class to the course website, making sure to add the supplemental readings on non-European art that the Ph.D. student whose main purpose is running discussion sections recommended.

The lecture itself is massive, two hundred students shoved in a darkened auditorium. One of the freshmen on the boxing team is in the class, a minor detail the freshman dropped while Grantaire figured out the best way to topple him.

“Yeah, it just seemed like a good way to get kind of cultured,” the freshman said, faking a jab at Grantaire's shoulder. “Have you met the professor?”

“I'm actually TA-ing for her,” Grantaire said. “Maybe you'll be in my class.”

“Awesome—will you give me an A?”

“Probably,” Grantaire admitted.

Now, the lecture hall is dark enough that Grantaire can't make out any of the faces eating up Professor Reed's every word. They seem eager, anyway. They must be: Grantaire certainly was, back in those days, even if he _had_ been sitting in econ lectures that bored him half to death.

“That's enough for today,” the professor says. “Your TAs are scattered throughout the lecture hall, so if you haven't gotten a copy of the syllabus yet, be sure to find one of them—stand up, please, TAs!”

Grantaire stands, along with half a dozen other undergrads and the three harried-looking grad students who are somehow supposed to run discussion sections for two hundred people.

“We'll do more detailed introductions next class,” the professor says. “But let it suffice to say that the Ph.D. candidates are all very qualified, and the undergrads all received a grade of at least an A in one of my other classes and have been personally vetted by myself and my research assistants. I'll see you all Thursday.”

Grantaire stays standing so he can hand out copies of the syllabus to anyone who asks, and when he runs out of copies he tells them they can find it online, and then his boxing freshman finds him and fist-bumps him.

“Dude, this art shit is cool,” he says.

“Have you ever taken art history before?”

“No. I took Studio Art in high school, though, does that count?”

“Kind of, I guess,” Grantaire says. “I'll see you at practice, okay? I have to meet with Professor Reed.”

“Yeah, see you, bro.”

He bumps Grantaire's fist again and wanders out just as Reed turns the lights back on. The students left in the lecture hall blink in surprise, and one surprisingly blond one all but sprints out of the classroom.

Grantaire frowns: if he's started seeing Enjolras in places he couldn't possibly be, then Grantaire is truly much further gone than he ever thought.

 

*

The first ABC meeting of the semester takes place on the evening of the first day of classes. Grantaire's digital art seminar actually ends twenty minutes before the ABC meeting starts and takes place in the same building, so he swings by early before realizing he'd really rather not hang out with Enjolras just now.

He hides behind the door for a bit, then figures it would probably be even worse for them to find out that he's hiding from Enjolras here, and so he opens the door tentatively to find--

Combeferre and Courfeyrac, setting up in quiet camaraderie, without an Enjolras in sight.

“Oh, hey, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. “How's it going?”

“I mean, classes just started and I'm somehow already behind, so terrific.”

Combeferre laughs. “Me too,” he says. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Want to come pick up the Chipotle with me?”

“You guys got Chipotle? You can afford that?”

Combeferre shrugs. “Call it a friendly donation.”

“Wow,” Grantaire says, dropping his bag at his usual seat and then following Combeferre out of the room.

“So I wanted to talk to you,” Combeferre says. “I mean, it was Courfeyrac's idea, but I was going to do it anyway.”

“Is this about Enjolras?”

“How did you know?”

“I feel like half the school keeps asking me about him, like I'm the one who's treating _him_ like shit instead of the other way around.”

“He _is_ kind of a dick to you,” Combeferre says. “I wish I could tell you why, or that he'll get it together soon, but it's been a while and it's possible he won't.”

“I know why,” Grantaire says. “He thinks I'm a waste of space. I mean, he's not wrong, right?”

“What?” Combeferre asks, paying the delivery guy and handing Grantaire half the bags of burritos to carry.

Grantaire shrugs. He doesn't want to talk to Combeferre about this, about how he checked “African American” on his common app even though North Africans are, he's pretty sure, supposed to check “Caucasian.” He doesn't want to say anything about the scout who showed up at one of his boxing matches his junior year of high school. He doesn't want to bring to light what everyone else must clearly be aware of: his massive inferiority to everyone who surrounds him all the time.

“All I'm good for is boxing, really,” Grantaire says.

“You know that's bullshit, right?” Combeferre says. “You know no one thinks that except you?”

“And Enjolras.”

“Enjolras doesn't think that.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“Look, can you—can you just go kind of easy on him? He had kind of a rough break.”

“He looked tan and well-rested when I saw him.”

“He worked on the beach all through it, but he's been fighting with his parents. He only went at all because they agreed to donate a heavy chunk of money to the ABC.”

They reenter the classroom, where Enjolras has arrived at last. He's looking down at the desk in front of him just now, seemingly unaware that he's being watched, and somehow this makes his face look younger than usual.

“I'm not really supposed to say anything,” Combeferre whispers. “But you can imagine it's really—not easy. With them. And with Enjolras's belief system. I mean, his dad is a weapons manufacturer.”

When he's not grand-standing or yelling at Grantaire, Enjolras looks remarkably like a regular 21 year old. He has a thin scar running over his forehead, disappearing into his hairline, and Grantaire is surprised that he's never noticed it before. It makes him feel tender, fond, like Enjolras is an old friend instead of a constant nagging at the corner of his eye.

“Fine,” he says, and Combeferre looks relieved.

“Let's start,” Courfeyrac says from the front, and at once Enjolras straightens.

“Hello, all,” he says.

Grantaire looks at him and thinks that for all that Enjolras looked so young and tired moments before, now he looks like a general ready to lead his troops into battle. Grantaire thinks that he'd follow General Enjolras, because he can believe in him even if he can't believe in his cause.

Then he thinks that he rather hates Enjolras, general or no, and plants his head firmly in his folded up arms in disgust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! My internet/computer situation has fixed itself, so—fingers crossed—I'll be back on a regular posting schedule shortly. 
> 
> Someone on Tumblr asked me how long this would extend: uh, basically until the end of the school year? So probably around finals in May?
> 
> Some references:  
> [Ovid on butterflies](http://ovid.lib.virginia.edu/trans/Metamorph15.htm#488378553).
> 
> Comedy helps us discern what is right is from Aristophanes' Acharnians.
> 
> Figures on the 2013 New Jersey gubernatorial elections: [1, ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Jersey_gubernatorial_election,_2013)[2](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paterson,_New_Jersey#Federal.2C_state_and_county_representation).


	8. february; or, cold weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are a couple of relevant questions in this chapter's endnotes, so please read through them!

Grantaire has always been mostly-visual, much more so than most of his friends. He notices the directions that the leaves on the trees outside his childhood home are blowing. He can spot cardinals perched on branches before anyone else has even seen that there's wildlife there at all. He can tell when Eponine is wearing more makeup than usual, and when he enters a room, visual cues pop out at him. It's part of why he's a good boxer. It's why museums can be overwhelming sometimes.

Now, in his watercolor workshop, Grantaire feels distinctly underwhelmed.

He is painting fucking fruit bowls.

“I think we can expect a little bit more from you, Grantaire,” his professor says. “I heard such good things about you from Professor Klein ...”

Beside him, a fellow art student rolls his eyes. Grantaire isn't sure if the student is rolling his eyes at Grantaire, at the professor, or at Klein, but whichever it is, Grantaire can understand the sentiment.

“I just don't know that there's another way to paint those apples,” Grantaire says.

“Watercolor doesn't have to be precise. You don't have to color in the lines.”

“Maybe fruit just isn't my thing.”

“We'll be moving on to more complex structures soon, but even Picasso started out painting true-to-life portraits, Grantaire.”

She wanders off to critique someone else's work, and Grantaire dunks his brush angrily in dirty water. He picks up some red, smears that all over his stupid apples, and calls it a day.

“Much better, Grantaire,” his professor says when she next comes around, and Grantaire is never going to fucking understand the art world.

*

Grantaire feelings for Enjolras aren't centered in the pit of his stomach anymore. Now, he just aches, all the time. Enjolras smiles in approval, or glances over at Grantaire, or says something like “This is what can save humanity,” or looks tired and strung out, or is visibly on too much Adderall, and Grantaire aches.

This, Grantaire first notices when Courfeyrac hands around a hat full of names.

“It's Secret Cupid,” Courfeyrac says at Grantaire's confused look. 

“Which you'd know if you could be bothered to stay awake through even a portion of our weekly meetings,” Enjolras says. 

“What Enjolras means to say is that your input is valuable, and we all miss something when we don't get to hear it,” Combeferre says.

Grantaire kind of feels bad that he slept through the Secret Cupid argument. He can imagine Enjolras shouting about how love itself is an emotion invented by greeting card companies to perpetuate hetero-capitalist ideals of humanity and sell more chocolates. 

“Grab one,” Courfeyrac says. “No cheating.”

Grantaire pulls a name out of the hat, and is wholly unimpressed and entirely unsurprised to see that, of all the people in this stupid club, he has gotten Enjolras.

“We'll exchange at our party on Friday the thirteenth, per Enjolras's request,” Courfeyrac says, and Grantaire snorts. “Remember: keep it secret. Keep it friendly. Keep it under ten dollars, and if at all possible, keep it free.”

Behind him, Enjolras nods.

Grantaire aches.

*

The next time he's at lecture, TA-ing, Grantaire uploads some readings on different mediums—oil paints versus water-based paints, chalk versus oil pastels, wood versus metal sculpture. Then he zones out, opens up two dozen tabs worth of internship applications, and tries to remember everything he's ever heard about how to write a cover letter.

 _To Whom It May Concern_ , Grantaire types, which is about the least Grantaire-like thing he's ever typed in his life.

*

And so the semester starts. The first week's lull quickly becomes the second week's rush to catch up, and then the third week's acceptance of defeat.

Mainly, Grantaire ignores the reading assignments delivered in his watercolor seminar. That, he's pretty sure, doesn't make any sense—although he gladly takes the professor's advice to visit several galleries in Chelsea, and he spends most of his weekend doing that alone.

It's odd, being alone and actually enjoying himself. Grantaire is pretty sure the last time he enjoyed himself this much when he was all alone was when he first turned fourteen and got a reliable internet connection. 

Now, though, he takes refuge in the long subway rides downtown, uses them to sketch strangers or catch up reading for his Arts of the Middle East class. They've started the semester, oddly enough, on a poetry unit, which Grantaire finds enjoyable enough—he hasn't taken a non-required lit class yet, and this is close enough.

Pre-Islamic ghazal poetry tucks itself into Grantaire's bones. It's about wine and companionship and sobbing under the moonlight for your unrequited love's long black hair. Grantaire reads it on benches in galleries in Chelsea, scribbles his own in his sketchbook next to doodles of the scar on Enjolras's forehead on the 1 train back uptown, hops on the M86 to look at the Met's current exhibition on Japanese glasswork and steals down into the permanent pre-Islamic Arabian exhibit for another few hours of sketching.

This time, he sits on the floor against the wall, draws some of the weaponry, draws some of the people walking by, draws one particularly charmed tourist who stares in awe at some of the pieces and reads one scroll in clearly native Persian to his young daughter.

“Hey,” Grantaire says. “Uh—I drew you two. Sorry, I know it's weird, I just—I was drawing that case, and you two seemed to really like it. It could be a good souvenir.” 

“Oh, thank you!” the man says. “They told us not to trust New Yorkers, but you're so nice!” 

He hands Grantaire a crisp twenty.

“Oh, I wasn't selling it,” Grantaire says. “I just thought it would be nice.”

“In that case,” the man says, “keep the money. God knows artists need it. Say 'thank you,' Bahar.”

“Thank you, Mister,” the little girl says. 

She beams up at Grantaire. She only has about four teeth in her mouth. It's adorable.

“You're welcome,” Grantaire says, patting her head. “And—uh—thanks,” he tells her dad.

He nods and moves on to the next room.

Grantaire feels suddenly like the entire fucking Met is much too small, like the walls are closing in, and he all but sprints out of the building into the crisp winter air of the Upper East Side.

*

The ABC's meeting have become mind-numbingly boring of late.

He isn't even interested in disagreeing with them anymore. It's all more of the same: the administration is keeping us down! The NYPD is racist! Only we can save ourselves! And it's pointless when he talks, because they all look at him, decide he isn't worth listening to, and move on. At least, that's what it feels like to him. 

As such, Grantaire has slept through every one this semester. Even the notion of staring at Enjolras as he passes through all the different faces that presidential Enjolras passes through can't keep him up. If anything, he wants to hide from them, wants to tuck himself away and disappear because that's how much he can't handle even looking at Enjolras anymore.

Every now and then, Eponine wakes him up to vote on something. Gradually, she stops doing even that.

He still goes to the Musain after, though, has drinks with everyone. Courfeyrac laughs loudly, and Combeferre snorts into his beer while studying flash cards with Joly, and Bahorel checks his phone constantly for news from law schools even though he pretends he's sexting his laughing girlfriend. 

The Musain, unlike the ABC meetings, is nice. It's Grantaire's forte, socializing in bars, and he sits between Jehan and Eponine and makes jokes and teases, and for all that he doesn't deserve them, Grantaire is glad that they are his friends.

*

“So—are you okay?” Jehan asks, when they're sculpting busts of their historical figures of choice in their sculpture class. “You've been kind of distant lately.”

“I've just been—I don't know. Doing a lot of art. Internship applications. Boxing's about to finish, so we've doubled up on practice. You know.”

“Your crush on Enjolras has gotten really debilitating, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“You know, if Akhilleus had just gotten over his pride, Patroklos would never have died.”

“In this metaphor, is Enjolras Agamemnon?”

“It's not a metaphor. I'm just studying for a test.”

“You have a test already? On freshman year material?”

Jehan shrugs. “Who are you making?”

“Who do you think?”

“Artemis?”

“Very funny.”

Jehan snorts into the wood he's carving.

*

“Hey so,” Montparnasse says. His hair is blue-black these days and slicked carefully to the side. “What are you doing Saturday?”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “I don't know. 

“I was thinking,” Montparnasse says. “Maybe you and me and Eponine should get dinner.”

“The three of us?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse says. “I mean—it'd be fun, right?”

“You know it's Valentine's Day Saturday.”

“Is it? Do you have a date?”

“No.”

“So does it matter?”

“I guess not,” Grantaire says. “You don't think it'll be weird?”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I don't know.” Grantaire pushes his hair out of his face, notes that it's gotten too long again. “You don't think dim sum was weird?”

“Yeah, but we were hungover. Besides, I want to take you shopping after.” Montparnasse rolls away from Grantaire, opens his laptop. 

“Do you mean shop-lifting?”

Montparnasse shrugs. “So we're planning a big feature on the NYPD's surveillance of Arab students. Can I quote you?”

“No,” Grantaire says.

“Want to write an op ed about your experiences?”

“No.”

“I'm going to get you to write one, R,” Montparnasse says. “If it's the last thing I do as Features Editor—”

He rambles on, and Grantaire bristles: he's not sure when he started finding Montparnasse annoying, but he has, and he kind of just wants him to shut up. 

“I'm going to head home,” Grantaire says. “I'll see you Saturday?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse says, not looking up from his computer.

*

It's February and frigid, but they all crowd up on the roof for the gift exchange anyway in an effort to avoid the constant heat of Courfeyrac and Marius's apartment. Grantaire gets there late, carrying his gift for Enjolras in tow, and it takes him fucking forever to drag it up the fire escape's stairs without ruining the packaging, especially because he's pregamed so heavily that he's not sure he can walk straight.

“Grantaire's here!” Courfeyrac says cheerily. “We almost thought you weren't coming.”

“I told Joly I would, so I did,” Grantaire says. 

He tries to mitigate some of the bite in his words with a smile. He's not sure why he feels so hostile toward everyone, only that he does. He needs a drink. Another drink.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says. 

He smiles back at Grantaire, takes a moment to squeeze his shoulder, then turns to everyone else without letting go. It's grounding, calming somehow, and Grantaire feels infinitely grateful to Courfeyrac for it.

“So as you all know, the purpose of our Secret Cupid was something like team-building—I mean, obviously I also wanted to force Enjolras and Grantaire to give gifts to each other—” 

Everyone laughs, and Grantaire wonders absently if perhaps it wasn't an accident that he got Enjolras. Enjolras is very deliberately not looking at him.

“—I joke, of course—but yeah, we wanted to team-build in preparation for our big rally in a few weeks—”

Rally? What fucking rally?

Absently, Grantaire remembers raising his hand to vote for something, some event or other, but he can't remember what it was. Hopefully they'll execute it better this time, or something.

“So let's get started—I'll pick the first name out of the hat, and we'll go from there.”

Courfeyrac lets go of Grantaire's shoulder and reaches into the hat. “Feuilly!”

Feuilly gives Bahorel a succulent he picked himself, and Bahorel gives Musichetta the future rights to his legal advice for her business, and Musichetta gives Eponine a coupon for Senegalese dance lessons, and Eponine gives Combeferre swimming lessons, and Combeferre gives Courfeyrac a mixtape, and Courfeyrac gives Jehan something that makes Jehan gasp and smile adorably but he doesn't share what it is, and then it's Grantaire's turn.

“So I got Grantaire,” Jehan says, turning his smile on Grantaire. “I know you're having kind of a poetry moment, and I know most of it is from like two thousand years ago in the Middle East, but I wanted to get you something from a few years ago in North America.”

He hands Grantaire a long rectangular package, and Grantaire takes the wrapping off gingerly. It's pink with red hearts on it, presumably to match Jehan's ridiculous outfit—electric pink coat, red bell-bottom pants, sparkly silver duck boots for the snow—and he kind of wants to hang it.

Beneath the wrapping is a long black frame, and tucked inside it is a poem. 

“'Unfinished Duet', by Richard Siken,” Grantaire reads. “Wow, Jehan—thank you so much.” 

“You have to read the poem,” Jehan says. “I mean, before you know if you can thank me.”

“I can already tell it's going to fit right in with my bedroom décor.”

“Yeah, I thought you needed something black and white to go with all the photographs,” Jehan says. “And I really like Richard Siken, he's pretty much—I don't know. He's just really lovely. His poetry's super inspirational for me. I thought you'd be able to relate to it.”

Grantaire starts reading the poem, and it hits him like Bossuet's right hook to the gut. 

“It's gorgeous,” Grantaire says. “Seriously, thank you.” He leans over to hug Jehan.

“Okay, Grantaire—who'd you get?”

There aren't many people left who haven't received their gifts yet, only Bossuet, Joly, Enjolras, Marius, and Cosette. At the moment, Grantaire wishes he'd gotten anyone else.

“Uh—I got Enjolras,” he says, ignoring Courfeyrac's cooing. “Here you go.”

He holds his package out to Enjolras, who removes the wrapping even more carefully than Grantaire did even though it's just brown paper with a few doodles on it.

“You know—that's not the gift part,” Grantaire says. “You can just throw it out after.”

“But your art's all over it,” Enjolras says. 

“They're just doodles. They take like twenty seconds each.”

“Still.”

He finishes taking off the paper at last, handing it to Combeferre, who holds it carefully in his hands and examines the drawings.

“Is this one me?” Combeferre asks, gesturing to the image of the ABC triumvirate sketched on one corner. 

He has giant headphones on and a turntable in front of him. Of course it's him.

“Uh—yeah,” Grantaire says.

“Can I commission you to make bigger versions of this?” Combeferre asks, taking a picture with his phone. “Like, this is profile picture material.”

“You don't have to commission it,” Grantaire says. “You can just—you know. Ask for it. I'm not, like, Rembrandt or anything.”

“Wow, dude, thank you,” Combeferre says. “I'm definitely going to take you up on that, so you'd better not just be trying to be polite.”

All this is only a distraction from Enjolras, who, Grantaire notices, is still staring silently at his gift.

It's not really anything special—it's one of the paintings he did of Enjolras last semester. It's mostly a joke, too ridiculous to go in his portfolio. He did it after their conversation during midterms, when Enjolras interrogated him about butterflies and Grantaire was so high that he actually responded.

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “So—”

“This is amazing,” Enjolras says. “I mean, I think it's kind of making fun of me?”

“It is, a little bit,” Grantaire admits. 

A painting of Enjolras as the butterfly leader of the Marxist moth revolution would tend to do that.

“But it's incredible.”

He looks up at Grantaire, and Grantaire can tell that he really means it, that he actually likes the painting, which isn't something Grantaire prepared himself for.

“Yeah, it's—it was nothing.”

“No it wasn't,” Enjolras says. “These are oil paints, right? Those take forever—and if you make a mistake, it's hard to fix. This is really detailed—you clearly worked hard on this. You shouldn't diminish that.”

“How do you know that about oil paints?” Grantaire asks, and even though they're on the roof he feels like the walls are closing in on him again.

Enjolras blinks. “Uh—I've been reading up on art history.”

“You are?” Grantaire says, feeling faintly relieved. “Uh—why?”

“The insights we can gain about each other through art are invaluable. I can see that now.”

“But art for art's sake is valuable, too,” Grantaire says. “Surely if you're reading up on art history, you can see that too?”

“Don't make him cross too many bridges at once,” Combeferre says. 

Grantaire forgot Combeferre and the rest of them were even here. 

“It's remarkable that he found something to be of value that isn't related to the cause,” Courfeyrac says, his tone falsely formal. “That said—let us progress. Enjolras, pray tell—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Enjolras says, which is the most Grantaire's seen him break character in front of everyone the entire time he's known him. 

Enjolras reaches over like he's going to pat Grantaire's shoulder or something, but instead he settles for waving his hand aimlessly next to Grantaire's face. Grantaire doesn't think about it, just moves his head so that his cheek bumps Enjolras's fingers. Enjolras responds, his fingers spreading to cup Grantaire's cheek, and Grantaire swears his heart falls right down into his stomach. He wants to kiss Enjolras. He wants to kiss him so badly that for a moment, Grantaire can't tear his eyes away from Enjolras's lips—red, because he's been biting them and because it is bitterly cold—at all.

Enjolras swallows. 

“I got Bossuet,” he says, turning away.

The space where his hand was feels hot despite the chilly February air, and Grantaire moves so he's closer to Courfeyrac, and thinks that pining absolutely does not suit him.

* * *

  
“So you and Enjolras get weirder every week,” Eponine says. “But somehow you're still super boring and predictable.”

She's sitting with her legs crossed on Grantaire's bed, painting her fingernails. 

“That could be the title to my memoir,” Grantaire says. “Weirder Every Week But Somehow Still Super Boring and Predictable: The Life of an Artist.”

“That's me—Eponine Thenardier, memoir-titler extraordinaire.” 

“What would yours be? A Little More Kin, a Little Less Kind?”

“Come Not Between the Dragon and Her Wrath,” Eponine says. “If we're going with the bard. I was thinking more Dickens.”

“Eponine: A True Tale of Grief, and Trial, and Sorrow.”

“No, that's what _your_ memoir should be called.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey—real recognize real, right? Tragic recognize tragic.”

Grantaire snorts. “Jesus Christ. That can be the chapter title for dinner with Montparnasse tonight.”

“So, yeah,” Eponine says. “About that—you know I'm not going, right?”

“What?”

“Yeah. I kind of have plans.”

“You have plans? On Valentine's Day? With who?”

“ _Whom_ ,” Eponine corrects.

“People who are anal about grammar are perpetrators of class warfare and lack empathy for those who, through no fault of their own, suffered from subpar education systems.”

“I guess you've been absorbing some of what's said at ABC meetings.”

“Just 'cause I'm saying something smart, doesn't mean I learned it from Enjolras.”

“Or one of the many other people in that club,” Eponine says. “Seriously, Enjolras isn't the only one there.”

“What, are you dating Feuilly or something? Is that why you're bailing on me tonight?”

Eponine shrugs. “Maybe you should pay a little more attention in meetings.”

“I pay plenty of attention in meetings!”

“Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure Courfeyrac mentioning the rally yesterday surprised you.”

“Only because you stopped waking me up to vote.”

“Oh, wow, sorry that I don't _wake you up_ when you sleep through every single one of the _completely optional and extracurricular_ social justice meetings we attend weekly.”

“I have a lot going on. I get tired.” 

“We all have a lot going on,” Eponine says. “Just, you know. The rest of us manage to pay attention to our friends.”

“Well, the rest of you are a lot less useless than I am,” Grantaire says, slumping back onto his pillows. 

Eponine smacks his leg. “Don't start this again.”

“You know it's true. I'm basically a diversity hire. If this school were a job, my checks would be a different color from everyone else's. I'd be government-subsidized.”

“I'm so tired of your pity parties,” Eponine says. “Especially when they're about affirmative action. I don't even care if you really believe it anymore—can you just stop saying that shit in front of our friends?”

“Why?” Grantaire says, drinking from the glass on his nightstand. “They all know I'm an idiot in nerd's clothing.”

“Okay, but most of them aren't white, either,” Eponine says. “Jehan is Native, even. Half your friends checked boxes for underrepresented minorities on their common apps, and that doesn't mean it was the only reason they got in, and even if it was they still have something to offer even if _you_ don't—”

“Hey,” Grantaire says, sitting up. “When did this turn into an attack-Grantaire party?”

“I'm just saying,” Eponine says, blowing lightly on her nails. “The things you say affect people. You should pay more attention to them.”

“Whatever,” Grantaire says. “Fine.”

“Don't get pissed at me,” Eponine says. “You know it's true.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Grantaire—”

“I can't believe you're making me hang out with Montparnasse alone tonight.”

“He _wants_ to hang out with you. He wants to be your friend.”

“He's not my friend.”

“No,” Eponine agrees. “Maybe you should pay attention to how you affect him, too.”

She climbs off Grantaire's bed.

“I'll see you Tuesday,” she says. “Have fun tonight.”

She shoves her feet into her snow boots and exits, leaving Grantaire to wonder just how far up his own ass he actually is.

*

Grantaire texts Jehan, _obsessed w siken now pls send more of the same_

_yes i have waited all my life for this moment <3 <3 ok literally anything by [margaret atwood](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/margaret-atwood), jeanann verlee's [lessons on loving a prophet](http://rsiken.tumblr.com/post/89322546122/one-you-know-how-this-ends-theres-nothing-you), keaton henson – [polite plea](http://peelsofpoetry.tumblr.com/post/46766317347/keaton-henson-polite-plea), anything by neruda but especially '[saddest poem](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saddest-poem/),' [osip mandelstam](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/osip-mandelstam), [louise glück](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/louise-gluck)_

_thanks jehan ur poetry recs mean the world to me_

_they'd fucking better_

*

Montparnasse is wearing a brocade suit, black background, gold and red and green embroidery.

Grantaire is wearing a faded t-shirt and a flannel with a hole in the sleeve that he keeps sticking his thumb through. 

“Well,” Montparnasse says, looking him over critically. “At least you didn't wear sneakers.”

“What's wrong with sneakers?”

“I actually was so sure you were going to wear your old Converse that I have shoes stored in a little cubby hole at the 14th Street subway stop. That's how gross you are.”

“Whatever,” Grantaire says, pulling his coat over his clearly unfashionable, dirty, and cheap-looking clothes and following Montparnasse out of the building. “At least I don't look like I pulled my clothes out of, like.” He stops, unable to find something to say. “I don't know. Zac Posen's laundry room?”

“Zac Posen doesn't have a good eye for prints or menswear, if I'm being completely honest.” 

Montparnasse has taken on that horrible fake English affectation again. His hair has so much product in it that it gleams just as much as the freshly fallen snow surrounding them. Grantaire feels even more thankful that he opted for boots instead of sneakers today.

“I don't even know what that means.”

“Which is odd, considering you have quite a good eye.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“We can trade them, if you like. It is Valentine's Day, after all.”

“I like putting your dick in my mouth,” Grantaire says.

“Is that all I am to you? A disembodied penis?”

Montparnasse says it like it's a joke, a smile playing across his mouth, but Grantaire runs a hand through his hair before shoving both hands in his pockets. There's a hole in the pocket of his coat, too, and he hooks his thumb through it and tugs. 

“Where is this place again?” Grantaire asks.

“West Village. It's the trendiest of the trend. It's—get this—a Cambodian bistro.”

“I didn't know they had bistros in Cambodia.”

“They don't. The head chef is this really young guy, but he was trained by the top chefs in southeast Asia _and_ Paris and he already has a Michelin star … you'll love it. Really wish Eponine was here, too, but whatever.”

“Is this going to cost me, like, half my paycheck?” 

“Probably,” Montparnasse says. “But you blow all your money on cheap booze, anyway. You need to refine your tastes.”

“Yeah, but you just don't pay for anything,” Grantaire says, tugging at the frayed edges of the hole in his pocket until they start to unravel into his hand. “That's not testament to your refined taste. It's testament to your _criminality_.”

“Oh, shut up,” Montparnasse says, and kisses him.

There's something unsettling about kissing on the subway, because it's public but still weirdly enclosed so it actually feels kind of private, in the same grimy way that the corner booth in a dive bar at three in the morning on a Wednesday is public but still somehow private. Except that there are people here, people with their kids, grandmas or whatever, and Grantaire can't help that it sort of turns him on. 

Grantaire and Montparnasse don't actually kiss that much. It's a trademark of their sex, that it's hollow and empty and lasts until both of them come, and then whoever's visiting the other goes home until the next time they want to hang out. The foreplay is mainly conducted via text message—Grantaire has dozens of pictures of Montparnasse's dick in his phone—and the most they've ever done in bed together after sex is smoke a goodbye joint.

But that doesn't mean that Grantaire's mouth isn't worryingly erogenous, or that Montparnasse isn't a pretty good kisser. He slides his tongue between Grantaire's lips immediately and drags it tantalizingly along the bottom of Grantaire's teeth before shoving it past them like he wants to take over Grantaire's mouth. He backs away a little to get a good grip on Grantaire's lower lip, which he sucks on delicately until Grantaire pulls his mouth away to reposition himself, and even then Montparnasse doesn't quite let go. The image of his lip between Montparnasse's teeth sears itself into Grantaire's brain, and he practically lunges, pushing Montparnasse up against the doors of the train car and kissing him hungrily.

“We need to get off the train,” Montparnasse says, laughing, as it slows down. “Also, I'm going to fall if you don't back off.”

His accent is American again. Grantaire feels dizzy. He's like eighty percent sure he's never been hard on the subway before. This is all Montparnasse's fault, and Grantaire doesn't even like him that much.

“Jesus,” Montparnasse says. “I didn't really think you'd react like that. Who knew you were an exhibitionist?”

“I'm not,” Grantaire says.

“I thought you didn't like kissing.”

“No, it just—it's not really part of our thing, you know?”

“What does that mean?”

“You know,” Grantaire says. “It's just not.”

“Okay,” Montparnasse says. 

They don't talk again until they're seated at the restaurant. The host gives Grantaire's worn flannel a withering glare, but when he glances down at the name on their reservation, beams at them.

“Right this way, Messrs Enjolras,” he says, and seats them near a window. 

“Uh, what?” Grantaire says.

“It was the only way I could get a reservation,” Montparnasse says.

Grantaire thanks the gods, every single one he can think of, even the ones he only half-remembers from world religions courses in high school, that he gets to stare out the window if he gets bored or annoyed looking at Montparnasse. 

“I've never seen Cambodian food with wine pairings,” Montparnasse says.

“Me neither, but that's because all the Cambodian I eat is in the Lower East Side.”

“Have you ever been?”

“To _Cambodia_?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously I haven't been to fucking Cambodia. Like, can Americans even go there?”

“You just need a tourist visa. They stamp your passport at the airport. It's not, like, North Korea or something, you know?”

“What, you've been to Cambodia?” Grantaire asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, when all the white people from my high school did their Euro trips I decided to go visit the homeland and then I ended up spending three months in East and Southeast Asia.”

“Where did you even go to high school?”

“Brooklyn Latin.”

“I didn't know you were from New York.”

“Really?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I don't know where most people are from. Like, Eponine grew up on the Upper West Side? Maybe?”

“Chelsea, actually. Not too far from here. We used to hang out a lot when we were kids.”

“You know her family?”

“Pretty well. Her dad helped me out when I was getting started.”

“Getting started with what?”

“Uh—my business,” Montparnasse says. “He taught me how to like. Get away with stuff.”

“So like—what's the deal with them?”

“With Eponine's parents?”

“Yeah.”

Montparnasse stares at Grantaire for a long moment. It's odd to see: Grantaire's not sure he's ever looked at Montparnasse from this angle before. One of his eyes is slightly higher on his face than the other one. It's so tiny that Grantaire hasn't ever noticed it before, and Montparnasse is still absurdly good-looking. If anything, the asymmetry adds a little charm to his face.

“You should ask Eponine about that,” Montparnasse says. “It's not really my place to talk about it.”

“ _She_ never does.”

“Do you ever ask her?”

“She never wants to talk about it,” Grantaire says, even though he's pretty sure he's asked her before. He must have.

“I don't want to talk about Eponine,” Montparnasse says. “I don't really like gossip.”

“You're a journalist. You love gossip.”

“Maybe you just don't understand journalism.”

“I guess that's possible.”

“You need to write something for me,” Montparnasse says. “Seriously. You have such a unique perspective. You can write about whatever you want—write about the treatment of athletes. Write about boxing. Write about the ABC.”

The waiter comes by, and Grantaire realizes he hasn't even looked at his menu. In any case, he's glad to be rescued from the journalism conversation.

“Sorry,” he says. “Uh—can you recommend something?”

Then, without warning, Montparnasse's foot is pressing against his still-sensitive dick. Grantaire's words get lost in his throat; the waiter looks at him expectantly.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. “Can you say that again?”

“I was saying that our special today is actually wonderful: ginger catfish with a charming Pierre Spar riesling.”

“We'll take two,” Montparnasse says. “Thank you. Uh—can you just point us to your restroom?”

The waiter frowns, but he seems unsure whether the two of them are friends or a couple—Grantaire wants to scream that it's neither, but he's also resisting the urge to moan because Montparnasse is still pressing down on his cock—and so he just points to the bar. 

“Just around there and down the little hallway,” he says. “I'll be right back with your cocktails.”

“Jesus fuck,” Grantaire says. “You ordered cocktails?”

“You looked like you needed one,” Montparnasse says. “Let's go—”

He grabs Grantaire's hand—Grantaire tugs it away—and leads him to the bathroom.

Mercifully, it is empty. 

Montparnasse grabs some paper towel, shoves Grantaire into the handicapped stall, tucks his head against Grantaire's neck to nibble at the exposed flesh there, and cups Grantaire's cock through his pants. 

“Jesus,” Montparnasse says into Grantaire's collar. “Still?”

“More like 'again,'” Grantaire manages, and Montparnasse laughs at that before continuing his assault on Grantaire's neck.

“Let's resolve this quickly,” Montparnasse says, dropping to his knees on top of the paper towels and pulling Grantaire's jeans down with him.

He opens his mouth and swallows Grantaire whole. Grantaire reaches for the back of Montparnasse's head, but both Montparnasse's hands pop up, grab Grantaire's hands, and push them up against the wall.

This doesn't seem to give him very good leverage, though, because then Montparnasse's hands drop back to Grantaire's ass. They squeeze hard enough that Grantaire groans before remembering they're technically in public, and he ruts into Montparnasse's mouth helplessly before regaining control. 

Montparnasse has Grantaire's cock all the way in his mouth, and it's _unbelievable_ , like he's been practicing on fucking _baseball bats_ or something, because there's no resistance at all, only Montparnasse's wet, wet mouth and his sneaky tongue gliding from the underside of Grantaire's cock all the way to the tip. He stays there for a moment, teasing Grantaire, and if Montparnasse's hands weren't pressed so firmly against Grantaire's ass then it's possible Grantaire would just fall over. Then Montparnasse dives back down so that Grantaire's cock must be down his throat, sucks until Grantaire's fingers scrabble against the wall. There's that familiar pressure in his balls, and then Montparnasse presses a finger against Grantaire's asshole, and Grantaire moans again. It's going to be over much too quickly, and Montparnasse is smiling and humming around his dick.

“I'm going to come,” Grantaire says. 

His voice echoes in the empty bathroom.

Montparnasse looks up at him, slides mostly off Grantaire's cock, and wraps a hand around the part of Grantaire's dick that is now throbbing and painfully hard and very clearly seconds away from release.

That's all it takes: Grantaire comes directly into Montparnasse's mouth, and Montparnasse squeezes his dick like he's trying to milk it, and then Montparnasse smiles up at Grantaire with Grantaire's cum still in his mouth.

“Jesus,” Grantaire says, and Montparnasse swallows.

“Who knew you were that easy?”

“That wasn't _that_ fast, was it?”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. “If that's what you need to tell yourself.”

He looks in the mirror, ensuring that none of his hair has come out of its carefully-combed style. 

“Uh—you want to go back in there?” Grantaire asks. “I can return the favor.”

“Later,” Montparnasse says. “Like I said: I'm taking you shopping.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Okay.”

Montparnasse meets Grantaire's eyes in the mirror.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” he says, and leaves the bathroom.

Oh.

Oh, _fuck_.

*

_ep did u fucking know mntprnss was into me? like in a love way? jesus fuck_

_ep he blew me in a bathroom and then said 'happy valentines day' & stole a bunch of clothes while i stood outside saks_

_btw who are u dating!!!!!! where were u tonight did u do this on purpose?? i bet you were just working u sly evil mermaid_

_eeeepppppppoooniiiiinneeee stop ignoring me_

_wouldn't it be cool if we started calling you pony? EPONInine hahahaha_

_ok im drunk & alone in my room i do not thrive in these solo environments lets do brunch tomorrow_

_Read: 7:38 a.m._

*

“I understand that you don't believe in art or the art world anymore, Grantaire,” Valjean is saying, “but that is not reason enough to not take up this opportunity.”

“I just don't think that painting in the woods for a week is going to be of great use to me,” Grantaire says. “I'd rather spend that time working on internship apps.”

“You can take your laptop,” Valjean says. “I think you need a break from the city.”

“I just got one.”

“Not enough of one,” Valjean says. “Painter's retreat. It counts as an entire credit. You're going.”

Grantaire stares at Valjean. He wants to spend spring break partying in the city, has been saving his money from TA-ing and talking to one of his promoter friends about getting his name on some lists. He wants to go clubbing with Eponine. He wants to dance. 

But the idea of painting in North Cultville, New York, or wherever Valjean is sending him, actually isn't the worst thing that Grantaire can imagine, especially for a credit. Some time alone, mostly disconnected from the rest of the world? Valjean has a point. That'll do him good.

“Fine,” Grantaire says, standing to leave. “But they'd better not make a big deal out of me drinking there.”

“Grantaire—”

“I'll see you soon, Jean.”

Valjean sighs. “Goodbye, Grantaire.”

*

_u free tonight? i have something i want to show you_

The text is accompanied by a picture of Montparnasse pinching his own nipple, which has a hoop through it that Grantaire is pretty sure wasn't there the last time Grantaire saw him shirtless. But then—when was that? Montparnasse barely took his clothes off when he fucked Grantaire on Valentine's Day, and that's the last time Grantaire can even remember seeing him.

He thinks about Montparnasse, looking up at him from the floor of that bathroom, smiling, and ignores the text.

*

The Musain has become Grantaire's saving grace.

It is the one place every week where he gets to see all of his friends—Joly's life has gotten a thousand times more difficult with med school applications, and Bossuet is always studying for the LSAT. Eponine has constant swim meets and anyway seems to be kind of tired of him. Cosette never has time for him anymore because she's choreographing dances for this dance season. Even Jehan has found himself suddenly way more busy because he signed up for an astronomy class and, it turns out, knows next to nothing about science.

“I fucked up,” he tells Grantaire gloomily one night when they've taken over their usual corner at the Musain. “I thought it'd be like, like, oh hey cool! We can see Pluto! And it is, kind of, but there's all this _calculus_.”

“Why didn't you just drop it?”

“Quitters never win.”

“Is that really why?”

“Yes,” Jehan says. “Just because I'm more inclined toward the arts, doesn't mean I can't master a science, too. Even if it does mean I stay up late watching Khan Academy videos on intro calculus.”

“You should ask Cosette or Eponine for help.”

“I tried asking Cosette when I was studying in Marius's room, but she just made it harder. She's too smart for me.”

“No one's too smart for you,” Grantaire says.

“She knows too much math to adequately simplify the calc I'm learning into terms I can understand given my rather limited knowledge of post-high-school-algebra math.”

“Much better.” 

Grantaire takes a long drink from his bottle. It's news to him that Jehan, Cosette, Marius, and probably Courfeyrac all study together. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. It leaves him unsettled anyway, like his skin is too small for his body, and even though he knows it doesn't make sense, he feels irrationally irritated at them for not inviting him along. _He's_ barely seen anybody in weeks outside of ABC meetings.

“Are you okay?” Jehan asks.

“Spectacular. I'm going to the bar. You want anything?”

“Oh, I'll come with you!” Cosette says, kissing Marius goodbye as if there's any possibility that her momentary absence will make him miss her.

Although, Grantaire thinks, knowing Marius—that wouldn't actually surprise him.

“So,” Cosette says. “When does boxing end?”

“Second week of March.”

“Swimming ends a few days before that.”

“Oh.”

“Can we talk?”

“We're talking right now.”

“I feel like you're still pissed at me for making you sit your last dance competition out,” Cosette says. 

She's not looking at Grantaire, who has no idea what she's talking about.

“No, I'm not.”

“Really? Because you've literally been avoiding me for months.”

“That's not true.”

“When was the last time we hung out?”

“We don't have a class together,” Grantaire says. “You're always busy. We just don't see each other regularly.”

“And that didn't bother you?”

“I figured we'd see each other again when I come back to dance. I didn't really think you missed me.”

“You know,” Cosette says, and then stops. 

She waves down the bartender and orders another round before talking again.

“You know,” she says. “I wouldn't say this if I weren't kind of drunk and really tired, but. Sometimes your constant I-am-trash routine gets a little grating.”

“One more reason for it to be weird that people like me, I guess.”

“What does that even mean?”

Grantaire sighs. “I'm sorry. You're right. Listen, when's practice this week? I'll come watch and then start getting back into dancing shape, okay?”

Cosette smiles despite herself: it comes slow but wide, all teeth and crinkled eyes, and when it's fully evolved it looks beautiful.

“Can I paint you sometime?” Grantaire asks.

“You already have.”

“I know, but—again. I'm better now.”

Cosette's smile widens. “I'd be honored. Just don't turn me into a butterfly king.”

Grantaire laughs, surprising himself. “That was a great painting. One of my best.”

“Oh, I'm not disputing _that_.”

The bartender reappears at last with their drinks. Grantaire and Cosette each take a tray back to their tables, and the rest of the ABC cheers at their return.

*

_wanna come over?_ Montparnasse asks.

 _can't tonight—busy_ , Grantaire types back, without thinking about it.

*

School is a slow grind, and Grantaire feels like he's never been more bruised in his life.

The thing is, Grantaire knows he's not very smart, and he knows he's not particularly motivated, and he knows he drinks too much and has too much sex with too many people and doesn't pay enough attention to any of them. 

It's not _all_ bad, he knows that too: he's a competent graphic designer, a passable painter in the way that lots of people are passable painters until they realize that art isn't really a viable career, and a pretty good dancer barring his most recent competition.

But the one thing that Grantaire knows is his saving grace is boxing. 

There, his worth is quantifiable in terms of the amount of people he knocks out. He takes a specific pleasure from watching people that he has hit fall over, at looking up to see points added to his name or his school's name on the scoreboard. That's why he still does it, despite the long practices digging into his free time and study time and art time and drinking time. Because he's good, and there are numbers that say just how good he is, and there's something incredible about that.

“Again,” Coach says, and Bossuet reaches out a hand to help Grantaire up. 

Grantaire takes another hit. Hits back. Blocks. Knocks Bossuet down. Helps him back up.

“Again,” Coach says.

Grantaire breathes.

*

It's good, though, to be back in dance, even if Grantaire isn't actually supposed to be dancing yet, Coach's orders.

He sits on the sidelines and watches as the different teams move together. Grantaire supposes he shouldn't be surprised, but the freshmen have improved monumentally since the last time he saw them dance before that horrible competition.

“Hey.”

Grantaire turns around, and is very, _very_ surprised to see Enjolras sitting next to him.

“Uh,” he says. “I think these practices are supposed to be closed to the public.”

“I have express permission. Cosette told me you'd be here.”

He was looking for him?

“You were looking for me?” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “I—uh—I realized I never said thank you.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “For what?”

“For that painting. It's amazing, really. I had it framed and mounted. So—thank you,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire kind of feels like he should be thanking Enjolras. 

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “You're welcome.”

“Also, I've kind of being keeping something from you, and Combeferre told me it's super weird and Courfeyrac says it's actually creepy if I don't tell you. So I'm telling you.”

“Are you about to tell me that you've been hacking my phone or something? I feel like you'd be against that for some reason.”

“You'd be right,” Enjolras says. “Infringement upon citizens' privacy is an example of the exact government overstep that—”

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “Weren't you going to tell me something?”

“Right,” Enjolras says. “Uh—so I'm in your art history class.”

“What?” 

Grantaire feels like the ceiling and walls of the practice room are shrinking, somehow, like the space is getting smaller and Grantaire is growing, probably, and the oxygen molecules are disappearing from the air at the same speed, and it's getting louder and louder as the dancers move faster and faster, and Grantaire is about to find breathing very, _very_ difficult. 

“Yeah, uh—the one you're TA-ing.”

“And you've been pretending not to be? How?” 

His voice sounds panicked, absurd even to Grantaire, and he presses both his hands against the floor like it can ground him somehow.

“I get there five minutes late because you're always on time and then I leave a minute and a half early because you always stay late,” Enjolras says. “I make sure to put my assignments in other TAs' piles and then I, uh.” He looks away from Grantaire, his cheeks going pink. “More than once, I've sat outside the art history department mailboxes, hiding, until you came to pick up your portion of those weekly writing things and then sneaking mine in before one of the other TAs came to get theirs.”

Grantaire inhales, exhales. He takes a sip from his flask. Enjolras looks pointedly away.

“You needed Combeferre and Courfeyrac to tell you that was creepy?” 

The alcohol helps. The walls start to back away again, slowly but surely. 

“Sometimes I … push the boundaries.”

“Of what? Clinically insane?”

“That's ableist language,” Enjolras says, but it sounds automatic. “But, uh, according to my psychiatrist … pretty much.”

“You talk to your psychiatrist about me? That's so sweet.”

That startles a laugh out of Enjolras, which reminds Grantaire of the night they spent cackling in Joly and Bossuet's apartment.

“You do it too,” Enjolras says. “Admit it.”

Grantaire shrugs. “When I go, she sometimes asks me about my extracurricular activities, and when that happens, I mention the ABC.”

“That's all I get?”

“That's all you get.”

Enjolras laughs again. “Bullshit.” He stands up, looks at Grantaire expectantly, holds out a hand. “Want to come to the library with me?”

“Why? So you can monopolize all the space and leave me trying to write a paper in a tiny corner?”

“I didn't say we'd be sitting anywhere near each other,” Enjolras says. “I just thought the walk might be fun.”

“Cold.”

“That's me.”

“Oh, so you're self-aware now?”

“Cripplingly.”

Grantaire snorts and ignores Enjolras's proffered hand. The idea of touching him just now is laughable. He pushes up off the floor instead.

“Okay,” he says. “Let's go.”

“We're stopping for coffee,” Enjolras says.

“Starbucks sounds great right now.”

“I don't patronize that corporation,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire isn't even if sure if it's a joke.

*

_r—is everything ok?_

_sorry just been busy_

_eponine says you're free tonight. be over at 9?_

Grantaire stares at his phone, and then replies, _see u then_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises, but—I'm kind of a little bit playing with the idea of a chapter from Enjolras's perspective? It would come after the next regularly scheduled chapter. It might be fun to see what Enjolras has to say about all of this before shit hits the fan, you know? Also, it means an extra chapter of this fic to read, which is fun. Anyway—your thoughts? 
> 
> Also also, if anyone knows if a good way to make fake phone text conversations, please let me know. I really don't like the formatting that's been going on lately and I'm thinking the best way to go is by just making the graphics. What's better? Just Photoshopping from scratch? Or is there some site I can use to generate them? 
> 
> Some footnotes (endnotes? Chapter notes?):
> 
> Jehan's metaphor is from Homer's _Iliad_. Grantaire and Eponine quote Hamlet, King Lear, and Oliver Twist.
> 
> Links to the poems Jehan recommends are in the text. I recommend reading, at the very least, “[ Lessons on Loving a Prophet](http://rsiken.tumblr.com/post/89322546122/one-you-know-how-this-ends-theres-nothing-you),” which will have plot significance in the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading. Please please please leave a comment and let me know what you liked and didn't like—they are my reason for waking up in the morning <3


	9. march, part one; or: antebellum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I know I said I was going to do the iPhone graphics, but ... it didn't happen. I might go back and put them in, like, years from now.
> 
> Anyway, warnings for excessive drunkenness and a panic attack in this chapter.

The second to last boxing meet of the season is on the first day of March. 

Grantaire knocks his opponents down, one after the other. He feels like he's playing a video game with cheat codes.

They win their league that day, and Grantaire relishes in the sight of his number rising on the national rankings.

“Good season, team,” Coach says. “We'll decide on who's competing at the last meet next Wednesday. No practice tomorrow. Rest up.”

On the bus ride back to the city, Grantaire stares out the window. His hands itch for a pen until Bossuet gives him one, and then he doodles the entire team on the back of Bossuet's arm in silver Sharpie.

“This is amazing,” Bossuet says, tuning out of the movie he's watching to pay attention to what Grantaire's doing. “Why is Davy's head so big? He looks like an Air Head commercial.”

“Isn't it obvious?” Grantaire asks, and Bossuet snorts in return.

*

2/28 9:15 p.m.: _hey are you still coming over?_

2/29 2:30 p.m.: _is there a reason you're ignoring me?_

3/2 1:15 p.m.: _ok, i get it. sorry to bother you._

*

Being back at dance is wonderful.

He's not allowed to actually dance yet due to risk of injury, but Grantaire is happy enough to participate in only the group stretches. Once or twice, Cosette asks him to demonstrate a simple move to a freshman or sophomore. Grantaire falls back into the rhythms of dance practice like he never stopped. It's good to be back. It's good to breathe again.

Especially because Enjolras comes.

And the weird thing is that now, Enjolras is accessible. They aren't friends, exactly, not the way that Enjolras and Feuilly are friends, or the way Grantaire and Jehan are friends, but they're at least—something.

They don't sit together in class or anything—they're not that close yet, they can't just sit next to each other for an hour and fifteen minutes while Grantaire ignores the professor and Enjolras takes detailed notes, probably with snarky little comments about how useless art is or something. But they say hi to each other when they enter the classroom, and they sometimes get coffee after. 

It's just nice to hear Enjolras talk about things like classes, to be able to talk back about art. Grantaire is a rambler, can't help himself with it, and Enjolras, surprisingly enough, listens. They meet up at dance practices, where Grantaire takes mental notes on the new routines and Enjolras talks about his disgust with human rights rhetoric. Enjolras is often in their building's lounge in the evenings, studying for the upcoming midterms, and he doesn't seem to mind when Grantaire joins him. He doesn't seem to mind, either, when Grantaire suggests they order Seamless because neither of them seems likely to cook or head to a dining hall.

Enjolras's understanding of art history is technical but technically correct, insofar as such things can be correct; his discussion of politics and human rights trends faithfully toward the naive and idealistic; his taste in food is utilitarian unless it's really late, when it becomes disgusting. And if he spends a lot of time listening to Grantaire while Grantaire sketches, blathering on endlessly about High Renaissance oils, well, Grantaire can't really complain—especially because Enjolras only looks a little disappointed every time Grantaire sneaks drinks from his flask.

Of course, it means Grantaire aches constantly, all the time, like his limbs are being tugged away or twisted right off his body, or else beaten to a pulp—which, half the time, they actually are. 

It's just hard, to feel constantly like he wants to kiss Enjolras and take him to art museums instead of just like he wants to shove him and bite his lips. Not that he doesn't want to do that too, still—but now it's more complex than that.

And Grantaire kind of gets the idea that Enjolras knows: he reaches out, sometimes, to pat Grantaire, or to brush his arm, and then draws his hand back quickly. It's something that comes quickly to them, to everyone in the ABC, this easy touching and casual contact. It's necessary to their relationships and friendships. How many times has Courfeyrac thrown an arm around Grantaire's shoulder? How often does Bahorel nudge him when they pass each other on campus?

But Grantaire can't even ignore their unofficial no-touching rule, because every time he touches Enjolras he finds himself only semi-functional for the rest of the day. It's hard to conceal and harder not to do it again, because ideally—and he doesn't even let himself hope for it—he'd be touching Enjolras constantly, all the time, ceaselessly.

“The group chat is blowing up,” Jehan tells Grantaire during Sculpture one day. “Combeferre says he's never seen Enjolras put actual energy into befriending someone before.”

“What's wrong with Enjolras? Actually?”

“Anxiety and a little ADHD, as far as I can tell. Socially inept. Emotionally ...”

“Vacant?”

“Let's say wishfully apathetic.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, sliding his visor over his eyes. “I'm going to do some welding, watch out.”

“Your Apollo bust is finished?”

“Professor said it was derivative.” 

“It was.”

“That's why I didn't argue.”

Jehan laughs, and Grantaire welds.

*

Grantaire is walking to the art building when Eponine shouts at him.

“Hey. Asshole.”

“Hey, Eponine,” he says, turning around. “Good to see you too.”

“Stop ignoring Montparnasse,” Eponine says, falling into step with him.

“What, like you've been ignoring me?”

“I haven't been _ignoring_ you, dickweed. I've been too busy to hang out with you constantly because, you know, I work like twenty hours a week on top of swimming _and_ the ABC, so ...”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. Dickweed. That's new. “Well—I'm not ignoring Montparnasse.”

“He says you made plans and then didn't show up.”

“I got caught up in the library,” Grantaire says, and when Eponine raises an eyebrow he lifts a hand. “Honestly—I forgot.”

“Why didn't you apologize?”

“It felt convenient.”

“Bullshit,” Eponine says. “ _Convenient_ , I mean, Christ. You were scared of confronting him.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Grantaire says. “He has shady friends. What did he say when you told him?”

“I told him before Valentine's Day, when he asked me to dinner.”

“Was he upset?”

“No,” Eponine says. 

They've reached the building his studio is in, and Grantaire stops walking, but Eponine doesn't, so he follows her in. 

“This isn't a movie,” she continues. “He doesn't think you're in love with him or something. He knows.”

“So you two are still friends?”

Eponine shrugs. “Do you care about staying friends with him?”

“Honestly?” Grantaire says. “I guess not.”

“Wow.”

“Okay, fine,” Grantaire says, unlocking the door to his studio. There are, rather embarrassingly, failed watercolors of nearly all the members of the ABC scattered across the floor, drying. “I mean, I don't want to sever ties with him. He's the best weed connection north of Central Park. He's an in at the paper if the ABC ever needs one. Sometimes he conveniently drops shoplifted shoes in my lap.”

“You're going to have to give him something in return, then.”

“In return for what?”

“Him not hating you.”

“That's crazy,” Grantaire says. “That's not how feelings work.”

“It's how Montparnasse works.”

“What did you give him?”

“My dad's current phone number.”

“What? Why?”

“He owes him money or something, probably,” Eponine says. “I didn't ask.”

Grantaire groans. His shoulder aches from practice that morning, and he wonders if he's bruised the bone. 

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I'll talk to him.”

“Or at least don't _ignore_ him. You're not eleven years old. You have to have a better understanding of conflict resolution than this.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. “I'll take that into consideration.”

“You'd better,” Eponine says. “Where's mine?”

“Where's your what?”

“My watercolor. Where is it?”

“Oh—uh, I haven't done it yet.”

“You painted _Combeferre_ before me?”

“Well, you ditched me to hang out with him on Valentine's Day, so it seems only fair. Oh, did you think I didn't know about that?” he adds, at her fleeting look of shock. “Well—I have my connections, just like you have yours.”

“Who told you?”

“No one.”

“The Facebook post, then.”

“If you're going to secretly go on a date with someone, don't let him Instagram it,” Grantaire says. “Or at least make sure his Instagram doesn't automatically post to his Facebook. It's only prudent.”

“We didn't secretly go on a date,” Eponine says, rolling her eyes. “It wasn't a date. I was teaching him how to swim. I'm going home.”

“Yeah, as soon as I call you out, you decide it's time to go, huh?”

“No, I just have actual hard work to do,” she says. “It's not all painting pretty pictures when you're in STEM, jackass.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Grantaire says, splashing her with some of the water he's brought to clean his brushes.

She laughs, and leaves, and Grantaire sighs.

*

It all comes to a head when Grantaire runs into Montparnasse, completely by accident, at the grocery store of all places.

Montparnasse's basket is full of kale and heirloom tomatoes. Grantaire's is mainly just eggs.

They cross paths in the dairy section, both reaching for the same Greek yogurt.

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “Hi.”

“Do we know each other? I was under the impression that you were pretending I don't exist.”

Montparnasse is wearing leather pants and very pointy boots with a very skinny heel. There's ice outside, and he's wearing heels, and he actually looks amazing in them. Grantaire can't tell if that's impressive or annoying.

“About that,” Grantaire says. “Uh—I'm sorry.”

“Would you have said that to me if we hadn't run into each other?”

“Uh. Eventually? But it might have taken me a while longer.”

Montparnasse sighs. “It's fine. It was good to see you.”

He adds the yogurt to his basket and turns to leave.

“Wait,” Grantaire says. 

“ _What_?”

“I shouldn't have ghosted you.”

“No shit.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Again, I don't think you'd—”

“I felt like you'd gotten—uh—attached,” Grantaire says. “Like, emotionally.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “You're not going to break my heart or anything, Grantaire. You were always very clear about our relationship.”

“I just felt bad because it seemed like some lines had been crossed or something, and I wanted to make sure you were …”

“What? Not crying into some ice cream, watching a bad rom com?”

“I guess so.”

It does sound ridiculous, now that Montparnasse voices it.

“Look, Grantaire,” Montparnasse says, picking an avocado with practiced care. “I like you. I'm not in love with you. Sometimes I felt like I could be, and then it felt like I was trying not to be. Signals got mixed, with you _and_ with Eponine, but I'm a big boy. I'm capable of a casual relationship.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, relieved. “I—are we good, then?”

“No,” Montparnasse says. “You owe me.”

“I'll blow you in the bathroom if you want.”

“No, I think we're done fucking,” Montparnasse says.

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Then—what can I do?”

“I want you to write an op-ed for me.”

“That's cold.”

“So were you.”

“Ouch.”

“Are you going to do it? You can say no if you want, but then you'll have made an enemy of the newspaper _and_ a cappella sectors of campus, so …”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, though he's not sure what making an enemy of a cappella groups would actually do to him. “Fine. I'll write something.”

Montparnasse smiles, all teeth and shiny lips. 

“I'll email you the details.” 

He pauses, then, looks down at Grantaire with hooded eyes. He's already taller than Grantaire is, and the heels on his boots don't help.

“ _And_ you should come to the spring concert,” Montparnasse says. “All the groups are doing a combined show for prospie weekend. It'll be fun.”

“Is this a condition of your forgiving me?”

“No,” Montparnasse says. “It'd just be nice.”

He disappears into the organic aisle before Grantaire can respond to this, and Grantaire blinks at the hummus in his basket.

Well.

*

“Grantaire. _Grantaire_. Gran _taire_. Tell me. What is it you hate?”

Joly has just pulled a chair up to Grantaire's table at the library, and just now quite a few people are giving him very dirty looks.

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “Gluten-free pancakes?”

“No,” Joly says. “Something you hate _more_ than gluten-free pancakes and people who are really into Banksy. _More_.”

“You don't like Banksy?” Enjolras asks.

“He's just so _obvious_. Oh, look, Disney is a capitalist enterprise. It's a bad idea to host the Olympics in London. I just—like, duh. It's like painting an American flag with dollar signs instead of stars or something.”

“That sounds like it would be a powerful image,” Enjolras says.

“Don't say things like that in front of me. I have control over your art history grade.”

“You wouldn't dare. Reed loves me.”

“Reed doesn't know your name.”

“I could _make_ her love me,” Enjolras says, with such conviction that Grantaire's heart actually, literally skips a beat.

“Um,” Joly says. “So anyway. What do you hate more than those things?”

“I don't know,” Grantaire says. “The hospital?”

“Yes! Exactly. The hospital. So what do you think happened?”

“Bossuet cracked his skull?”

“Close,” Joly says. “His femur.”

“His _femur_?” Grantaire says, standing up and dumping his books and laptop in his bag immediately. “There's _one_ boxing meet left and he's supposed to be captain next season—he's going to be so upset—what happened?”

“They hadn't salted the ice off the stairs from upper to lower campus on the east side, and he decided he was going to walk down them anyway.”

“Is he okay?”

“He's sleeping. Doctor says he should be good.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Okay. Why didn't you just call me?”

“I needed to get out and get something to eat. Musichetta stayed with him,” Joly says.

That's fair, Grantaire thinks, and pulls his coat on.

They leave the library and walk to the hospital as quickly as they can manage, stopping only so they can pick up sandwiches at one of the delis nearby (“I'm pretty sure I got food poisoning at this one once—don't look at me like that, Grantaire, it's only one more block to go to the better one, humor me—”), and it's not much later that they find themselves pacing in Bossuet's hospital room.

Or, well, Enjolras is pacing. Grantaire is slumped into one of the chairs Musichetta got them.

“Can you chill for like twenty seconds?” Grantaire asks. “Why did you even come here?”

As far as he knows, Bossuet and Enjolras aren't that close. But then, it turns out he doesn't actually know all that much.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras says, like this is the strangest thing Grantaire has ever said. “My friend is injured. I want to make sure he's okay.”

Grantaire tries to picture Enjolras doing such a thing for _him_ , but he can't. His throat feels tight, and he looks away.

“I'm just so tired of seeing him hurt,” Enjolras continues, looking down at Bossuet. “Can't we get him—I don't know—some kind of movement stabilizer or something?”

“It's not his fault,” Grantaire says. “He just has horrible luck.”

“'Luck' isn't what causes stairs to not get salted,” Enjolras says, and returns to his pacing. “That's criminal neglect on the part of the school. That's what we're fighting for, don't you see?”

Grantaire doesn't, but he likes listening to Enjolras, so he only shrugs in response.

“If workers are happy, they do good work. Workers who aren't happy don't do good work. Workers who are overworked and underpaid _especially_ don't do good work. That's what's happening here.”

“I don't think Karl Marx is going to solve the problem of icy stairs in New York in March.”

“It's not about the ice!” Enjolras practically shouts, arms spread and eyes wide. “It's about the salt!”

The sight of this is so absurd that Grantaire starts to laugh. Enjolras gives him a very dirty look.

“Okay,” Musichetta says. “I think you two need to, uh. Shut up.”

“ _I'm_ not doing anything,” Grantaire says.

“Aren't you?”

“ _No_.”

“Stop provoking Enjolras,” Joly says. 

He sounds tired, all the adrenaline from his trip to the library earlier gone. He has a textbook in his lap, but it's closed, and he looks like he's about to fall asleep. Midterms hit them all hard, but they hit pre-meds the hardest, and Joly is no exception.

“Bossuet will be fine,” Grantaire says. “You know how he is. He'll bounce back.”

“I know,” Joly says. “It just sucks.”

Musichetta scoots closer to him, kisses his cheek. There's no way they're both fitting in one chair, but Joly tugs her until she's sitting half on top of him anyway, like he just can't get close enough. He tucks his head into her neck and sniffles, and Grantaire remembers that Joly hates hospitals even more than he does, which is odd for someone who wants to be a doctor. Or maybe it isn't: Joly has terrific bedside manner, sunny and caring and wonderfully warming, all underlain with that feeling of friendly camaraderie. _I don't want to be here, either_ , his body language so frequently seems to say, _so let's get you out of here together._

Musichetta murmurs something then, and Joly makes an odd shuddering noise, and Grantaire has to look away.

The next thing that catches his eye is Enjolras, who is staring intently at Grantaire, and Grantaire meets his eye for only a moment before Enjolras at last settles into a chair.

“Hey guys,” Bossuet says, and Grantaire looks up.

“Fuck, dude,” he says.

“Yeah,” Bossuet says, and his face looks sad for only a moment before he beams. “Thanks for coming, though. Not everyone's lucky enough to have their friends visit them in the hospital like this.”

“Not everyone's lucky enough to slip down the one unsalted staircase on campus,” Grantaire says. “Fuck, Bossuet—”

“No, it's okay,” Bossuet insists. “Really. Is one of those sandwiches for me?”

Enjolras hands him one, and Bossuet peels back the foil and bites into it.

“Honestly, thank fuck for you guys. I got sick of hospital food around the time I was five and broke my arm for the fourth time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Enjolras says, and stands back up again. 

“Enjolras, you're giving me a headache,” Musichetta says. “Just sit down.”

Enjolras ignores her, continuing to pace. 

“Enjolras, why don't we grab some coffee for Musichetta and Bossuet?” Grantaire says, because Joly is definitely not allowed to have coffee.

Enjolras practically jumps at the chance, scampering out of the room like just being inside it was driving him insane. They take the stairs instead of the elevator, because Enjolras definitely does not look capable of waiting for an elevator right now.

“Do you have Ativan on you?” Grantaire asks.

“Yeah, but I didn't want to take any because I have to pull an all-nighter.”

“No, you don't,” Grantaire says.

“I have a paper and an exam—”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Grantaire says. “How much coffee have you had today?”

“Not _that_ much, and I haven't taken any Adderall either—”

“Perfect,” Grantaire says. “You're in the ideal position to take an Ativan, say goodbye to Bossuet, and go to sleep.”

Grantaire can't understand what Enjolras is doing. He's never seen him like this before, and though it's clear it's some kind of anxiety thing, he doesn't know where it came from. Enjolras seemed a little wired at the library, but no more than usual.

“I don't _want_ to say goodbye to Bossuet,” Enjolras says. “What if he ends up in the hospital again? What if next time it's because of one the ABC's rallies? What if I'm the reason he never boxes again, or never _walks_ again, or something?”

Then his mouth clamps shut, like he's said everything by accident, and he sits down at last in one of the chairs in the hospital's cafe.

Almost immediately, he springs up again, then sits back down, then gets back up.

“Sit down, Apollo,” Grantaire says, digging for his flask in his coat pocket and then realizing he's left it upstairs in Bossuet's room. “Take your Ativan.”

He slides Enjolras a cup of water. Enjolras uses it to chase a pill obediently.

“Good,” Grantaire says. “Now: it's people's choice whether they follow you or not. You don't get to decide who risks what for you. That's not how it works.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. 

His fingers are still tapping against the table, and then he presses both palms down flat for a moment, stares at his hands. They tremble so fiercely that Enjolras balls them into fists.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, reaching for Enjolras's hands with both of his. 

He hovers over them for a moment, giving Enjolras the opportunity to tell him to stop, and then wraps his hands around Enjolras's.

Enjolras closes his eyes. He inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales, breaths coming in small puffs. His hands relax, flattening out, palms open beneath Grantaire's. 

Enjolras opens his eyes.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” Grantaire says. “Happens to me all the time.”

“Anxiety sucks,” Enjolras says, and he sounds at once fourteen years old and fifty-five, and Grantaire wonders how Enjolras can do that. 

He's relaxed, so Grantaire shifts. 

“I'm going to go get some coffee, okay?” he says.

But Enjolras stops him, spreads his fingers so that he can get a grip on Grantaire's hands. Enjolras's middle finger rubs against Grantaire's wrist in soothing back and forth motions, and Enjolras doesn't break eye contact. He's been wearing glasses again in the wake of midterms, but his eyes are still startlingly blue beneath them. His hands are warm in a way Grantaire didn't expect.

“Just don't,” Enjolras says. “Just don't let go for a minute.” And then, “Please?” like Grantaire can deny him anything at all, even if it's like complete torture, how much he loves this.

He thinks about tomorrow, when he will not be holding both of Enjolras's hands.

He thinks about the day after, when he will be avoiding Enjolras's touch again.

Neither of those days seems worth seeing. 

“Okay,” Grantaire says.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says again, and squeezes.

*

Grantaire is wearing a suit because that's what the career center advised him to do, but so far no one in this building has even gotten close to his level of formality. His tie feels tight around his neck.

“Can you talk more about the extent of your interaction with the Adobe Creative suite?” the interviewer asks.

She's young, only a few years older than Grantaire, but there are lines of exhaustion behind her Warby Parker glasses. Her dark hair is coming out of its loose bun, but it's falling around her face in practiced curls, like it's deliberate. She's wearing skinny jeans and a blazer, a strange combination of professional businesswoman and cool hipster.

“Sure,” Grantaire says, trying to decide whether to look at her or the other interviewer, who is a male with a man bun, a beard, and a flannel shirt tucked beneath his own blazer. He's wearing boots that look fake-distressed. Grantaire wants to roll his eyes at the sight of him, but he resists.

Grantaire settles on looking from one to the other as he responds, trying to maintain eye contact between one and then the other in what's hopefully a pretty natural progression. 

“—so, yeah, that's been mostly it,” he finishes, hoping that his response is satisfactory.

“Tell us more about your work with some of the progressive organizations on campus,” the guy says, looking at Grantaire's resume. Both he and the woman are white. Grantaire tries not to grind his teeth. “What's the ABC?”

“The ABC is a sort of catch-all social justice organization,” Grantaire says. “I'm actually a full member—I sit through meetings, help organize events, that kind of thing. But my relevant work there is basically making flyers and designing white papers.”

The male interviewer flicks through Grantaire's portfolio.

“I really like some of these,” he says. “Can you tell me about the process that went into making this one?”

“Well, I study visual arts, so I make a lot of the graphics myself by hand or on a tablet,” Grantaire starts.

This is his third interview this week, and they're starting to wear on him. He's tired of explaining how drawing by hand and graphic design intersect in valuable ways. He just wants to be done with all of this.

“Do you have any experience making art for digital and not just print media?”

Grantaire launches into an explanation of that, too, something half-fabricated about how he got his start making stuff for the library in his hometown. The interviewers smile at him. 

He sends thank you emails from the elevator, and then he takes a cab back to campus in time for his next class.

*

It doesn't help that Grantaire hasn't had any sex in weeks.

Grantaire knows he has a lot of sex. He knows it's absurd to sleep around the way that he does, and he gets appropriately tested when Joly gets on his back about it. It's just a good stress reliever, the kind that (usually) leaves him capable of getting to practice in the morning. He doesn't know if it's healthy, but he knows it's healthier than drinking or smoking away his problems.

But he hasn't had sex since Valentine's Day, and he feels edgy all the time now.

Jacking off in the evenings if he can get a few minutes is barely helpful. Sometimes he wakes up, already hard and too tired to do anything about it. In those cases, he stares at the ceiling until he can work up the energy to get himself off and drift back to sleep. Sometimes he goes soft before that happens, and when that happens, he usually lies in bed staring at the ceiling until the sun rises.

Joly mentions this once, when they're out picking up groceries.

“Are you sleeping okay?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You just seem,” Joly says, frowning. “I don't know. Like you're running on autopilot.”

“What does that mean?” Grantaire asks, inspecting some fruit for Bossuet. Bossuet likes tangerines but not clementines, he's pretty sure. Or is it the other way around?

“It's the other way around,” Joly says. “Are you taking anything for sleep?”

“No,” Grantaire says. “Psych says I can if I want, but she's worried about the way it'll interact with the Xanax.”

“Hm,” Joly says. “I guess that's smart.”

He picks up a pint of blueberries even though it's too early in the year for them and they're way overpriced. Grantaire adds bananas to his own basket.

“What about … more recreational sleep-inducing activities?” 

“Like what?” Grantaire says blankly. “I already work out for three to four hours a day, and I'm pretty sure I exhaust my mind, too.”

“I meant—you know.”

Joly leans heavily on his cane the way he does sometimes when he's embarrassed.

“Do you mean sex?” Grantaire says. “You're in a three-way relationship and you're embarrassed to ask me about sex?”

Joly straightens. 

“I'm not _embarrassed_ ,” he says. “I just know stuff got weird with Montparnasse, that's all. I didn't know if it was sensitive. You never talk to me anymore.”

“You're always busy,” Grantaire says, defensive, which is true: since meeting Musichetta, Joly's presence in Grantaire's life has dwindled. He sees Bossuet, of course, but that's more because of boxing than because Bossuet's spare time lines up with his.

“I'm not too busy for my _friends_.”

Grantaire doesn't know how to answer that, so instead he says, “Montparnasse and I were never exclusive. We just kind of had a fight. How did you know about it?”

“Eponine told Combeferre, who told Bossuet, who told us.”

“Us” means Joly and Musichetta, Grantaire's pretty sure. 

“Eponine and Combeferre talk about that stuff?” Grantaire says. “Since when are they even close? She's a pretty private person, usually.”

Joly rolls his eyes. “Are you jealous? Why didn't _you_ tell us?”

“I don't know. It never seemed relevant.”

Joly looks at him over his glasses, frowning.

“Does Bossuet like arugula?” Grantaire asks.

Joly sighs.

“Which kind? I think he prefers baby spinach …”

They conduct the rest of their shopping in mostly-companionable silence.

*

With Bossuet now fully out of commission for the rest of the season, boxing becomes bleak again.

Grantaire loves the feeling of his body in motion, of course, and he still loves winning, but there's something cold about not having his usual sparring partner to warm up with.

He warms up with the other upperclassmen instead, does his yoga in silence and laughs through his suicide sprints because Davy has gotten it in his head that it's his duty as captain to lighten the mood and started doing ridiculous dance moves when he gets to the cone.

Bossuet waves at Grantaire with one of his crutches when Grantaire glances over, and Grantaire grins back.

*

The fourth interview goes poorly.

It's another graphic design job, this time at some tiny but weirdly corporate agency in East Williamsburg (which is just hip gentrifier speak for West Bushwick), and Grantaire hasn't slept because it's fucking midterms and he's had to write papers and finish projects and _box_ , and he just completely bombs it.

He's gotten rejected from all three of the other ones, and the long subway ride back to campus means that Grantaire has nothing to distract himself from the sinking feeling of his own failure.

Grantaire doesn't even _like_ graphic design. That's the injustice of it all. It's the opposite of everything he takes away from art, personal expression and representations of any of his personal demons, and it's so fucking irritating that this is what it comes down to, him failing at something he doesn't even like because—what? He's too scared to fail at something he _does_ like?

He huffs, spinning a pencil between his fingers and staring down at his be-suited legs. He doesn't know why this stings so much. He supposes he's just tired, coming down from Adderall, not really functional enough to be emoting in a normal way.

The L train crosses into Manhattan, and Grantaire gets off even though he's so far away from campus that a cab back would probably overdraw his bank account (although maybe that says more about his bank account than the distance). 

He has Watercolor this afternoon, but he already knows he's skipping it, and there's a bar nearby that sells two dollar shots before four o'clock.

Luckily for him, it is very much before four o'clock.

*

Grantaire emerges from the bar six hours later, having spent entirely too much money on well vodka while befriending half the bar's patrons and at least charming the other half.

He knows he shouldn't have spent so much money, but sometimes the idea of being alone, even if he's just drinking alone, is too much for Grantaire to imagine. He could have bought a bottle of decent vodka and sat in his studio painting and drinking, but even thinking about it now, sitting on the subway home, Grantaire thinks that's just about the last thing he's capable of doing right now. 

The car he's in feels kind of like it's spinning. Around him, people not much older than he is wearing much nicer suits read books on their Kindles. He feels invisible. He wishes he were still at the bar, but he could feel himself, the way he often can, starting to grate on people, to annoy them. Sometimes, Grantaire can take a hint. Sometimes he really can't, but sometimes he can.

He doesn't have any obligations until boxing in the morning, and so Grantaire goes to the art building, bangs on the door of Jehan's studio space.

“What's up?” Jehan says, and then takes in Grantaire—his rumpled suit, his undoubtedly flushed face, his surely relaxed smile—and frowns.

“Je _han_ ,” Grantaire says, and grabs at Jehan's elbow. 

“Did you skip Sculpture just to drink?” Jehan says.

“You skip class to get stoned all the time,” Grantaire says, getting a grip on Jehan's arm at last and whirling him around. “Want to dance?”

“What happened? What's wrong?”

“I didn't skip Sculpture. Professor excused me.”

“Are you sick?”

Jehan is so light that it's easy to swing him around. Grantaire puts a hand on either side of Jehan's waist and starts to dance, one of the first waltzes he learned in ballroom years ago.

“Put me down,” Jehan says, and Grantaire, who has never heard that tone in Jehan's voice, does so immediately.

“No dancing?” he asks.

“Sit down,” Jehan says, pointing Grantaire to his stool, but Grantaire is definitely not capable of sitting still. 

“Don't want to,” he says. “I love people. Don't you love people?”

“Some of them,” Jehan replies, digging through his bag.

“Not some of them. _All_ of them. They're wonderful. I could talk and talk and talk, and never get tired, and it's because I love people and I hate person.”

“You hate person?”

“You know. Person. The personal. Humanity, maybe, is vile, but people are wonderful.”

“I don't know,” Jehan says. “People in general kind of scare me.” 

At last, he finds what he's looking for and turns back around. He thrusts a bottle into Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire drinks deeply before he realizes it's just water.

“Jesus,” he says. “Is this it?”

“I can go get you some more if you want,” Jehan says. “Coffee, too.”

“That's not what I meant,” Grantaire says, but he doesn't know what he meant, so he sits down on the floor, head leaning against the wall. 

The ceiling spins in and out of focus, moves closer and then farther away. Grantaire's vision blurs and then sharpens, like he's taken a Photoshop tool to reality.

Thinking about Photoshop makes Grantaire curl his hands into fists. He has never been violent despite the boxing, but now he pounds one of the hands against the floor. The pain in his knuckles brings him back, a little, and he looks straight ahead, at a very concerned-looking Jehan.

It is possible that Grantaire has drunk entirely too much.

“It is possible that I have drunk entirely too much,” Grantaire says.

“Yeah, no shit,” Courfeyrac says, and where did Courfeyrac come from?

“Where did Courfeyrac come from?” Grantaire asks, and Jehan frowns.

“He was here when you got here,” Jehan says.

“Oh.”

“What happened?” Courfeyrac asks.

Jehan hands Grantaire more water, and Grantaire drinks it too quickly and all of them spin. Water sloshes down his front, or at least it must because his chest is wet and his chin is wet and he can't remember how.

“Isn't it fucked up when even the people you don't want don't want you?”

“Is this an internship thing?” Courfeyrac says.

“How did you figure that out?” Jehan says.

Courfeyrac shrugs, and then without warning sits right down next to Grantaire so that their legs are touching. The human contact grounds Grantaire in a way the water didn't, and he reaches out to grip Courfeyrac's wrist.

“You'll find something,” Courfeyrac says. “And if you don't, there's always crashing in Enjolras's guest room and painting portraits for his parents' old money friends.”

“Enjolras is new money,” Grantaire says, absurdly.

“Enjolras's voice is full of money,” Jehan says, and that makes enough sense that the conversation ends there.

Grantaire doesn't know how long he sits there, only that eventually Courfeyrac gets up, takes him by the hand, and walks him home.

Jehan doesn't come with them, and when they get to Grantaire's room, Grantaire asks why.

“Don't ask me why Jehan does the things he does,” Courfeyrac says, and then he sighs and fills a glass of water for Grantaire's nightstand. 

“Are you two fucking or something?”

A wrinkle appears in Courfeyrac's perfect forehead as he pushes off Grantaire's jacket, undoes Grantaire's tie. Grantaire doesn't know how he's never noticed this, but Courfeyrac is gorgeous, too. His skin is positively radiant, delicate freckles sprinkled surprisingly over tan skin. 

“Can I paint you?” Grantaire asks.

Courfeyrac pauses in his undressing of Grantaire to press a cool hand to Grantaire's forehead, then to his cheek.

“You've never asked before.”

“Consent is sexy,” Grantaire says. “Don't answer that. Just—pretend I didn't say that. It was a joke.”

Courfeyrac laughs, a low chuckle. He undoes the buttons on Grantaire's shirt. 

“You and Jehan would have really gorgeous babies.”

The wrinkle deepens. Courfeyrac pulls Grantaire's trousers off.

“Buy a guy a drink first,” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac ignores this. He sets about carefully hanging Grantaire's suit on an actual hanger and lining Grantaire's trash can. Grantaire stares at Courfeyrac's back, still covered in his winter coat.

Courfeyrac turns around, so abruptly that the room spins again. 

“Lie on your side.”

Grantaire does.

“I'm setting an alarm for eight tomorrow,” Courfeyrac says, using Grantaire's limp finger to unlock Grantaire's phone. “I'm going to stop by at nine to make sure you're up. I'm going to call you in a few hours to make sure you're doing okay. Okay?”

Grantaire nods. Sometimes, he doesn't quite understand Courfeyrac and the other members of the ABC. Not for the first time, he has the ridiculous feeling that he's joined a gang years after everyone else and they're still sizing him up for initiation. They have all these inside jokes and little codes, and sometimes Grantaire thinks they're so insulated it's a wonder any of them have friends other than each other at all.

“Courfeyrac,” he says, and Courfeyrac turns around before stepping out of the room. “Stay.”

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Courfeyrac says, as if he hasn't heard Grantaire.

He smiles, and leaves, and the room spins.

*

Grantaire wakes up at two in the morning, drenched in sweat. His head throbs, and he leans over the bed and barely makes it to the trash can before throwing up.

It's clear, he thinks, that he's not going to sleep anymore, and so Grantaire stands in the shower for what seems like hours, until the pain in his head has receded just a little.

His phone shows that he has several texts, that he answered Courfeyrac's call at eleven that night and that they talked for a few minutes, that he has an email from Valjean about whether he's sure he doesn't want to prepare some pieces for Klein's gallery.

Grantaire stands in the bathroom, abandoned this late at night—everyone's either studying for midterms at the library or in bed—and stares at his phone.

On an impulse, the kind he wouldn't have given in to if he hadn't just gotten three job rejections, faced a horrible interview, and consumed his body weight in cheap vodka, Grantaire responds to Valjean: _Can you send me more information? - R_.

His body feels tired and sore, and his head still spins. Grantaire takes some aspirin and settles at his desk to work on a paper due in a couple of days.

*

There's less than a week left until spring break, and everyone is on-edge.

Grantaire can't sleep through the ABC meeting for once, because he's on a ton of Adderall, because he's been up since two in the morning and hungover and exhausted.

Basically, he has one paper to finish by afternoon tomorrow plus the op-ed for Montparnasse, and then he's set until the boxing meet this weekend.

Enjolras stands at the front of the room, and he looks again like the marble lover of liberty Grantaire first mistook for some kind of alien nymph. The room lights up with him at the front, and it's like the he's the sun. Grantaire almost wants to close his eyes against him.

“April first is on a Wednesday this year,” Enjolras says. “It's still too early to know for sure, but right now meteorologists think it's probably going to be in the low sixties and sunny.”

“I had a friend run on a check on it, and they think that's probably right,” Combeferre says. 

Combeferre has friends in meteorology. Of course he does.

“But barring any life-threatening weather conditions, the rally goes on,” Enjolras says.

“The harder part, the thing we really have to figure out, is the logistics of breaking into the president's house,” Courfeyrac says.

“I have picking locks down,” Eponine says. “So if you guys can get campus security off my back, I can definitely get in.”

“Wait,” Grantaire says. “ _What_?”

Everyone turns to look at him.

“You're breaking into the president's _house_? Why?”

“He refuses to attend any of our meetings,” Enjolras says. “He completely ignored our pleas at the end of last semester. He's basically pretended that the ABC, the MSA, the BSO, NRT, the QA, and SJP don't exist.”

“So he has barely any letters left for his name,” Grantaire says. “Great. That doesn't mean you can break into his fucking house.”

“That's the only way to effectively communicate our point,” Enjolras says. “We're going depose him. He's racist, he's classist, and he's sexist. He's ignored the school's outcry about responses to on-campus rape and sexual assault. He's repeatedly tamped down on affirmative action. He's increased tuition and lowered financial aid. He partners with the NYPD in their surveillance of Muslim students. He's been in office for twenty years. It's time for a change.”

“What the fuck is breaking into his house supposed to accomplish?”

“This is our home,” Enjolras says. “He's made us feel unsafe here. Now we make him feel unsafe in _his_ home.”

This all sounds rehearsed. It probably is. This is probably exactly what Enjolras plans on saying at the actual rally.

“That is monumentally fucking stupid,” Grantaire says. 

“Well, we've already voted on it _twice_ , and you had your chance to disagree.”

“I don't remember that.”

“Yeah, it's often hard to remember the details of the goings-on surrounding you when you're asleep.”

“That isn't fair.”

“We don't have time for this,” Enjolras says. “This is our last meeting before break, and then we only have two more meetings until the actual rally. We've already made the decision. If you're not interested, you don't have to participate. What we need now is to figure out logistics.”

“It's not about interest,” Grantaire says. “It's about not getting _arrested_. You don't just pop back up from breaking and entering, especially if you damage property, and especially if it's _here_. Everyone's facing expulsion, arrest, fines, jail time—”

But when he looks around the room, it's clear that they've all thought this through.

“This is the dumbest thing you've _ever_ done,” Grantaire says.

“No, the dumbest I've ever done was not waiting until you fell asleep to start this meeting,” Enjolras says. “Now, if you'd kindly extend that courtesy—or even just settle down—”

“What happened to 'all voices must be heard'?”

“All voices _have_ been heard. Weeks ago. Can we get on with this now?”

“Fine,” Grantaire says. “Do it.”

He can't drink—he's got too much work to do, and besides he's so hungover that the idea of adding liquor to the cocktail already sitting in his stomach makes him nauseous—so he sits in his chair and sketches instead, starting with wilted flowers on one corner of the page and trying but failing not to turn the whirling stems and dying leaves into the faces of his friends, surrounding him. The stems look like bars, the leaves like hands curled around them. Grantaire presses down, darkens the lines of his petals.

“This all sounds great,” Combeferre says. “We'll do a practice run at Enjolras's parents' brownstone next weekend for anyone who's back from break early.”

“It's well-guarded, but the guards all like me, and my parents will already be in Jamaica for spring break,” Enjolras says. “Have a good couple of weeks, everyone.”

There are murmured goodbyes as everyone pairs up to leave, but Grantaire hangs back, watching Enjolras shuffle papers together and pack his bag.

“Just say it, Grantaire,” he says, when the room has finally emptied.

“Are you trying to get all your friends arrested?”

“Wow, we're getting right into it.”

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you. Answer the question.”

“No, I'm not trying to get them arrested,” Enjolras says. “And I resent the implication that I don't care about my friends—I don't even like seeing Combeferre pull all-nighters.”

“Well, that's what you're luring them into with this. They're going to get fucking _arrested_ , and they're going to _jail_ , and they don't have fancy lawyers to break them out.”

“They can decide for themselves if this is what they want to do. That's the point of all of this—don't you get it? It's a _choice_. I don't get to decide who risks what for what cause. _They_ decide. That's the _point_.”

“And of course the only consequence of them not doing it is that they don't get to be your friends anymore?”

“What?”

“You'd only befriend someone who'd make the decision to get arrested. Not the other choice.”

“The other choice is cowardly,” Enjolras says. “But of course I'd prefer if all my friends did that—”

“Sure, but the types of people you like would _never_ do that.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I'm saying that you can pretend you've got their best interests at heart all you want, but it's _abundantly_ obvious to me that all you care about is the greater fucking good, and you only befriend the types of people who would gladly risk themselves for your precious cause because everyone's obsessed with _impressing_ you, they're all desperate for your approval, and that means you're getting people like Combeferre and Bahorel and Bossuet arrested. And when poor black men get arrested, it's not as easy for them as it is for the rich white son of a weapons manufacturer.”

Enjolras stares at him, eyes wide. “ _Fuck_ you, Grantaire,” he says. “This is _all I do_ , it's _all I care about_ , and for you to—to assume that I don't consider the consequences, that I don't _obsess_ over them—you don't even _know_ me, you're just _obsessed_ with me—”

Grantaire goes cold all over. 

“Fuck _you_ ,” he says. 

Two spots of pink appear, high up on Enjolras's cheeks. 

“I didn't mean—” he says, and then stops. “I just—”

“I'm so fucking _sick_ of you,” Grantaire says. “Jesus Christ, you don't have to _constantly_ remind me that I'm worthless—I know that, okay? I know I shouldn't be here, I know I'm some affirmative action charity case, I know I'm always the dumbest person in the room. I _know_ that.”

He wants a drink so badly that he presses down on his pencil, and the tip breaks through the paper and then cracks. His hands shake. Grantaire puts the pencil down.

“You've said it yourself,” he continues. “I'm just the sleepy drunk in the corner of the room. I've never done anything of worth and I never will, and that makes you feel better about yourself or something so you keep me around—and you're so good at it, aren't you?” His voice is rising now, but he doesn't care. “As soon as it looks like I'm going to leave for good, you rope me back in. But you can't even do it when you're in your right mind. Most of the time, you have to get drunk or take meds to even talk to me like a normal human being. And you know what? That's fair. You don't have to like me. But I don't have to fucking put up with it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “None of that is true.” 

He moves forward, reaches out as if to pat Grantaire's shoulder or something, then seems to think the better of it, because his hand drops. 

He's not even good enough for Enjolras's blessed hand.

“Isn't it?” Grantaire says. “Whatever. I've had it. I'm done.”

He thinks that if Enjolras tries to stop him now, if he apologizes or touches Grantaire's wrist or _anything_ , then Grantaire will stop, will break down, will agree to do whatever Enjolras wants when they invade the president's house.

But Enjolras doesn't. Enjolras lets him go.

*

They're figuring out who the best boxers on their team are the next morning for the last meet of the season, and Grantaire is really, _really_ not supposed to drink, so instead he goes back to Jehan's poetry recommendations. He finishes his paper like a responsible student, tears through Atwood in a corner of the library as the Adderall makes its way through his system, then settles at his desk with a Gatorade and his laptop to read.

It's all going just fine. He's pissed off, of course he is, but he'd follow Enjolras into the underworld if he had to. He's perfectly willing to play Orpheus. He doesn't want to, but he will. And he's not bad with a fiddle.

And anyway, Grantaire hasn't lost hope yet. He can convince them, he's sure. He's not a rhetorical genius—he's the _opposite_ of rhetorical genius—but he can at least tell people when they're doing something stupid. If _he_ tells them it's stupid, they'll have to see it's a dumb idea. 

But then Jeanann Verlee's “[Lessons on Loving a Prophet](http://rsiken.tumblr.com/post/89322546122/one-you-know-how-this-ends-theres-nothing-you)” makes Grantaire's throat dry up. 

It's like someone has written a poem just for him. It's like they've ripped his darkest fantasies out of his mind and put them on this website.

_The day you fall in love, his mouth will spill your name. He will repeat and repeat. He will not touch you. He will watch your hips, study whatever ample you have, will ask to watch you dance. When you turn to leave, he will use your name like a choke chain._

He doesn't know why Enjolras has this effect on him, only that he does. Grantaire thinks that, for all Enjolras's faults, Grantaire would probably still drop to his knees to lick his boots if Enjolras so much as pointed. _He will not touch you._

_He will not touch you._

_Fuck it_ , Grantaire thinks, reaching for the bottle of whiskey he keeps tucked between his bed frame and the wall. 

_When the minions call you whore, nod._

_When he tells how meek, the gluttons, the tempted, the proud are his angels, do not mourn. Smile, feed him, wash his hair._

Grantaire tips his head backward, and drinks.

His phone vibrates.

_r—don't forget, your op ed is due tonight_

Grantaire snorts, and creates a new document, and writes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will follow Enjolras around for a bit. It's super self-indulgent, but, you know. Permit it?
> 
> Please leave a comment! I love hearing what you all thought/what you think is coming/really just your character headcanons and stuff. Seriously, comment even if you hate this fic/me/the English language/Les Miserables/fandom in general. Those AO3 emails make my day.
> 
> Foot/end/chapternotes:
> 
> “Enjolras's voice is full of money” is a reference to _The Great Gatsby_. The line reinforces the distinctions between old and new money in Fitzgerald's text. Grantaire doesn't know this, but Enjolras's family _is_ old money—basically, his mother is old money, his dad's family has been rich forever but especially in the last couple of generations after his great-grandfather started Enjolras Industries during the first World War.
> 
> “Consent is sexy” refers to various sexual health campaigns (typically on college campuses, at least in my day) that sexualize consent itself, which is well-intentioned but generally accepted (at least in social justice circles) to be pretty problematic. The argument I tend to go for is [here](http://theroguefeminist.tumblr.com/post/61910186719/kiwicthulhu-causewaytoneverwhere-my-main), and there are a few op-eds in college newspapers here ([1](http://acvoice.com/2013/10/23/consent-isnt-sexy/), [2](http://whitmanpioneer.com/opinion/2013/01/31/consent-is-sexy-mantra-well-meaning-but-misguided/), [3](http://freethoughtblogs.com/brutereason/2013/02/16/consent-is-sexy-is-useful-but-also-kind-of-gross/)) (trigger warnings for rape and sexual assault in all those articles).
> 
> “Marble lover of liberty” is, of course, from Hugo's original text, and I think probably the inspiration for many comparisons (mine included) of Enjolras to a statue.
> 
> I hope this made your Saturday mornings a little better. Have a lovely weekend <3


	10. interlude: odi et amo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: shameless rehashing of a couple of my favorite moments from this story; self-indulgent wish fulfillment in the form of another unreliable narrator; lots of anxiety—but all in all, Enjolras is much healthier than Grantaire.

(i do not know what it is about you that closes  
and opens;only something in me understands  
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
—E. E. Cummings  
“somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond”  
  


*

  
Enjolras realizes, at some point in November, that Courfeyrac has gotten it into his head that Enjolras has a crush—a literal _crush_ , like some eighth grader with braces and a cracking voice—on Grantaire.

“I don't have a crush on him,” Enjolras says, in an undertone because they're at the Musain and the subject of their conversation is sitting at the next booth. “I just think it's weird that he cut his hair _right after_ I said I liked it.”

Courfeyrac howls with laughter. Even Combeferre stops pretending not to stare at Eponine long enough to smile. Enjolras, embarrassed, checks to make sure Grantaire isn't looking. He isn't: he's bent over a scrap of napkin, everyone laughing as Grantaire bites his lip and doodles something. His lovely hair is falling into his face, unencumbered, for once, by the hair-tie Grantaire is always wearing these days. Enjolras sighs.

Courfeyrac, who spent most of their sophomore year trying to set Enjolras up with one social justice type after another, delights at this.

“ _Marius_ told me,” he says. “He saw you _canoodling_ on the roof at our first party.”

“Marius just saw us talking,” Enjolras says, embarrassed, but Courfeyrac doesn't seem to care.

“Who knew you'd go for artsy dudes,” Courfeyrac says. “Dudes who are like, really into the Mountain Goats. Who, like, totally judge you at bars if you don't order an IPA and you're like, sorry, didn't want to consume literal fermented mud tonight. And then you fuck in the bathroom or something.”

“IPAs are really more like piss than mud,” Enjolras says. “And anyway, that's not it at all.” 

He looks over at where Grantaire's head is thrown back in laughter at something Bossuet has said. Grantaire doesn't look like he'd judge someone for not ordering an IPA, not right now, not laughing like that. The column of his throat is bare except for the bits of stubble that he hasn't shaved off. There's about an inch of hairless skin above his collar, and Enjolras's mouth is very dry at the sight of it.

Courfeyrac follows his gaze. 

“Jesus,” he says. “It's not about the type at all with you, is it?”

Enjolras doesn't know what that means, so he just shrugs in response and sips at his scotch and soda.

*

That first party, Enjolras thinks privately, was a lapse in form.

He's not someone who is sexually attracted to people often. It's not in his nature. It never has been. He dated one boy in high school, half to piss off his parents—neither of whom seemed to care at all—and half because it got people off his back.

The boy was sweet but boring, the type to agree with everything Enjolras said but not really know anything about anything, and Enolras doesn't regret dating him, but he doesn't regret breaking up with him, either.

Grantaire is something else altogether, and yes, fine, if they'd been left alone for a moment longer at that party Enjolras is sure they would've kissed at least. 

But they didn't, because Marius knocked sense to him, and for that, Enjolras can only be grateful.

He's seen it before. Sex only complicates things. Love only distracts from what's important. 

He watched Grantaire and Eponine fuck up their dance routine, Eponine distracted by her crush on Marius and Grantaire distracted by his odd obsession with Enjolras. Enjolras knows that's exactly what would happen if he were to reciprocate: interest leads to distraction; distraction leads to lapses in attention; lapses lead to catastrophe. 

He is single-minded and focused, and he's going to stay that way.

(And if he still thinks about Grantaire pressed against him in Courfeyrac's stiflingly hot room, of how his fingers looked against Grantaire's skin, of the feel of Grantaire's hair under his fingers—well, if he still thinks about that, he tries not to dwell on it for longer than it takes to get the necessary tasks done.)

*

Enjolras runs into Grantaire the night before the BSO rally, and Grantaire is completely plastered. Enjolras has seen him drunk before, of course, but never like this. He can barely stand up. He leans heavily against the bathroom doorframe and looks at Enjolras.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Apollo.”

“Are you going to be functional tomorrow?” Enjolras asks.

“Isn't it weird how Starbucks used to be the ultimate marker of gentrification, but now it's Whole Foods?” Grantaire says.

“What?”

“Yeah. Almost like the cool kids don't go to Starbucks anymore, or something. Did you know there's a cafe called Stars and Bucks in Palestine?”

“I didn't.”

“You should read more about Palestine,” Grantaire says. “Do you think God believes in Himself?”

“What?”

“Are gods gods if they don't believe that they're gods?”

“Maybe that's the only time that they're real.”

“Other people have to believe, though. That's the only way they have any power.”

“I guess,” Enjolras says. “Mostly organized religion relies on manipulation of the vulnerable, but—”

“Is Mitt Romney vulnerable?”

“What?”

“Mitt Romney believes in his god so much that he doesn't even drink Coke,” Grantaire says.

“How much have you had to drink?”

Grantaire laughs, a bitter, wheezing sound that is altogether unlike the laugh that Enjolras is used to. 

“Good night, Apollo.”

“Wait,” Enjolras says, but when Grantaire does he doesn't know what to say. “Are you going to be okay?”

Grantaire snorts and stumbles into their floor's one private unisex bathroom (despite Enjolras's fervent letter-writing, there are barely any on campus), slamming the door shut behind him.

The next day, Grantaire is clearly hungover at the rally, but he makes no mention of Starbucks or Whole Foods, and Enjolras assumes the entire matter has been completely forgotten.

*

Enjolras gets arrested at the BSO rally by campus public safety.

They recognize him and let him go, and though he argues, they refuse to let him take anyone with him.

“ _Go_ , Enjolras,” Courfeyrac tells him. “I'll get them out. Don't worry.”

Enjolras leaves, but he hates it, thinks about how much he hates it the whole way to the ABC meeting after.

“Courfeyrac'll get them out,” Combeferre tells him in a low voice when the meeting ends. “Courfeyrac is a much better convincer than you.”

“No he's not,” Enjolras says stubbornly.

Combeferre actually laughs. 

“Let's go to the Musain,” he says. “We'll get a drink with the ABC. We'll wait until Courfeyrac gets there and tells us what's going on. We can figure out what to do from there.”

“Fine,” Enjolras says.

He follows Combeferre to the Musain, where everyone is already sitting in their usual seats.

People aren't in particularly bad moods, it seems. Despite their classmates' bad fortune, the ABC is having a great time. Marius is sharing something blended with Cosette. Feuilly and Bahorel are in the middle of what looks like a very deep discussion but which Enjolras is sure is about something ridiculous, like their favorite Fisher Price toys. Musichetta serves them all drinks, tells them they're on the house, and squeezes Enjolras's shoulder when she passes. Even Grantaire is there, staring intently at Enjolras despite his conversation with with Jehan.

Enjolras meets his eyes.

Grantaire raises his drink in silent toast, and Enjolras raises his in return.

*

He stays on campus for Thanksgiving, telling his parents that he has a big paper due.

Enjolras likes campus when there's hardly anyone there. He does his laundry with minimal interference. He orders Chinese food and eats it in the lounge, TV tuned to CNN because sometimes he just likes to zone out. He studies in his favorite room of the library without having to get there at seven in the morning. 

He gets Happy Thanksgiving snapchats and texts and messages and he sends them back, congratulating the ABC on their successful food drive. He still feels guilty that they can't really do much, that giving some cans to some hungry people is nowhere near solving the problem of homelessness. It makes him sigh into the empty space in his room. It feels impossible, what he wants to do. A tiny drop of progress in the great ocean of what seems like global despair. 

Sometimes it's exhausting, caring about so many things all the time.

His phone vibrates.

_happy thanksgiving, apollo. dont beat yrself up—it takes longer than two weeks to solve ancient & systemic problems_

Enjolras stares at the text. Somehow, he can picture Grantaire's face when he sent it. Something like _chill out, Apollo—the world's not that bad._ A hand stuck out as if to pat Enjolras on the shoulder and then taken back. A crooked half-smile. Hair stuffed into a hat falling into his face. 

The anxious dissatisfaction churning in Enjolras's stomach subsides. His head knocks against the wall of his room, and he looks up at the ceiling. 

He actually feels better now, which surprises him. He doesn't know why, but something about Grantaire is inherently calming just the same as something else about him is inherently frustrating. Enjolras closes his eyes.

The last time he saw Grantaire, there was a shrinking bump on his forehead and a black eye opposite. It tugged at Enjolras's insides, somehow attractive and painful at the same time. Enjolras isn't sure what that means, but he supposes everyone can see it. That's probably why he has so many friends.

Enjolras texts him back and stretches out on his bed.

It isn't in his nature to nap, but it's Thanksgiving and he doesn't have any pressing work and he is so, so tired.

*

The night before the ABC's rally, YOU CAN'T SCARE US, Enjolras is a ball of nerves.

He flits from building to building, checking on everything he can—flyers in place, posters where they're needed, ABC members coming—and by the end of it, he can barely breathe.

He returns to his own building and finds himself walking not to his own room, but to Grantaire's.

He knocks. 

As usual, there's no answer, but this time there's definitely noise inside. Maybe Grantaire is listening to music again, that horrible soppy whining that he calls good. Enjolras really, really doesn't get music.

He knocks again, and again there's the distinct sound of movement within.

A third knock. “Grantaire? Are you home?”

Grantaire opens the door. “Hi,” he says.

He isn't wearing a shirt. Up close, his tattoos look gorgeous. Enjolras isn't one for art, but he thinks that if he were, this is the kind of thing he'd consider beautiful: branches wrapped around collarbones. Scrawled German script in Eponine's hand. Flowers that look like they've been done in watercolor on one bicep and a fading smiley face on the opposite bicep. Two x's. A heart monitor line above Grantaire's heart. A scar, jagged and wide and flat, running from Grantaire's collarbone to his nipple, disturbing the lines of his tattoos.

And on top of that, Grantaire's beautiful hair is artfully mussed, and on top of _that_ , his face is flushed and his jeans are open and he is most definitely aroused.

Enjolras swallows. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No.”

“Yes!” someone calls from inside.

Enjolras looks, but he can't see over Grantaire's shoulder. He supposes it makes sense—it's not like he expects Grantaire to spend all his time alone in his room masturbating. Grantaire doesn't seem like he likes to be alone very much. He's barely ever in his room. At any rate, Enjolras is fairly certain this isn't the first time he's walked in on him with someone.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says. 

He starts to leave, but Grantaire calls him back, hand jerking out almost as if it's involuntary.

“Did you need something?” Grantaire asks.

“I just wanted to make sure you were coming to the rally.”

Grantaire stares at him.

Bile rises in Enjolras's throat, the swift panic of failure. If even one member doesn't come, then he's fucked up, hasn't communicated his message appropriately, might as well have not convinced anyone—

“So,” he says desperately. “Are you?”

“What?” Grantaire says.

“Coming to the rally,” Enjolras says, clenching his fists at his sides. The papers in one hand—leftover flyers—crumple.

“I mean,” Grantaire says. “Does it matter? There are going to be hundreds of people you said, right? Thousands? All the marginalized peoples from here to Washington Heights?”

Enjolras knows Grantaire is mocking him. He isn't stupid. But that _is_ what he expects—that's what's in everyone's best interests, for all the marginalized peoples from here to Washington Heights and then down again to rally for their rights.

“That's what we're hoping,” he says icily.

Grantaire stares at him for a long moment. 

“Okay. Cool. So …”

“But I just wanted to make sure,” Enjolras says, his faith suddenly breaking all at once. He can feel his breathing start to quicken, can feel his heart rate speed up. He forces himself to relax. He can deal with this later, but now—just to make sure—he has to know— “Just in case—you know—if not a lot of people show—we still really want the core of the ABC to be there.”

It's not until he says it that he realizes that it's true, that that's really how he thinks of Grantaire. Grantaire is so new, has only been there a few months, but already it's almost impossible to picture them without him. Times New Roman flyers. No one to protest in meetings, to tell them they're doing something wrong. They need Grantaire. Annoying as he is, his voice is a vital one

“I'll be there,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras finds that it is suddenly very difficult to breathe. “Jesus, Apollo—”

“ _Don't_ ,” Enjolras says.

“Look, do you like—do you want a Xanax or something? A drink, maybe? We could smoke a bowl?”

“Don't you have something to be doing?” Enjolras asks through clenched teeth.

“Some _one_ ,” Something shouts. 

Enjolras's heart stops. He looks at Grantaire, who has completely ignored the interruption.

“You look like you could use a chill pill. At least let me give you one of those.”

“One of what?”

Grantaire's face is so close that Enjolras thinks that if he stretched just a little—they would touch. His chest is very bare, and it's evident from the lines of his body that Grantaire is a dancer and a boxer and devoted to both.

“A Xanax,” Grantaire says. 

His voice is very soft. He is looking Enjolras directly in the eye.

And then, before Enjolras can answer, his gaze drops to Enjolras's lips.

“Right,” Enjolras says. His voice sounds oddly distant, like he's hearing it from outside his body. “No. That's okay—I have some Ativan.”

“Anxiety twins,” Grantaire says, voice softer still. 

Enjolras leans in. 

“Odd thing to bond over.”

“People bond over odd things every day. Charges, for one.”

Enjolras barely hears him.

Grantaire's lips look soft, and red, and—and slightly swollen, as if they've recently been bitten.

All at once, everything rushes back to Enjolras, and he backs away, shaking his head to clear it.

“Wait,” Grantaire says. “Where are you going?”

 _Away from you_ , Enjolras thinks, _before you drive me completely insane_.

“I mean,” Grantaire continues, “for winter break. Are you staying here?”

“I—my family lives in New York,” Enjolras says. “We might go on vacation. Someplace warm, my mother says.” 

He dreads the thought of spending any time with them at all, but he knows that if he agrees to go on vacation he can bargain for other privileges. The ABC needs money for vegan food at meetings, to rent out space, to pay for permits. His father has money to spare, and he always has thought that buying Enjolras things was the easiest way to buy his loyalty. Or his love. Enjolras hasn't ever been able to figure out which.

“So you're going to vacate.” Grantaire laughs. The sound brings Enjolras startlingly back to the present, where Grantaire is standing inches away from him with his shirt off and jeans that do little to hide the fact that, after all this, he's still erect. “Get it? I always thought it was weird, how vacation comes from vacate, which is like this compulsive need to leave, right? But we think of vacations as a good thing.”

Enjolras stares at him. He almost wants to laugh. He feels himself smiling, the panic already ebbing. 

“I'll see you at the rally, Grantaire,” he says.

He wants to say thank you, but it feels too formal, so instead he reaches out, grasps Grantaire's wrist.

Grantaire looks up at him in shock, and then back down at his hand. 

“I'll see you at the rally,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras lets go.

*

Enjolras's father spends all of winter break looking at his son in disappointment.

The beach is beautiful, and Enjolras bristles at the bevy of white tourists being served by carefully-trained brown people.

His father doesn't notice any of them, and if his mother does, she doesn't bring it up. Both of them are too busy carefully applying sunscreen, his father making a great show of not using his Blackberry while his mother makes a great show of doting on her son.

“We aren't celebrities,” Enjolras's mother used to tell him. “We're just rich people. The others—” by this she means the poor, the non-white, even the newer money “—are jealous of us, and they want to slander our names. We can't let them do that.”

“You had a debutante ball, Mother,” Enjolras would say, and sometimes a wrinkle appeared in his mother's otherwise perfectly smooth forehead.

“We're of a different class,” she would say. “Those aren't the magazines we belong in.”

And she's foul, Enjolras knows, but he's at least glad that his name doesn't call to mind much more than a tall building in midtown. He can't imagine how horrible it would be if people found pictures of him screaming in a stroller or something when they Googled him.

He sits up in the lawn chair, sipping at the black coffee he ordered—not quite sweet enough, but he's trying to go off the excess sugar, has to keep reminding himself that coffee is a tool and not a treat—and looking up ways to break into heavily-guarded buildings.

*

“So you still haven't told Grantaire you're in his class,” Combeferre says.

They're sitting at brunch the first weekend after classes start, the three of them, at a place that looks cheerfully out at Central Park in all its snow-covered glory. 

“Of course I haven't,” Enjolras says. “You know he'd get the wrong idea.”

“Would he?” Courfeyrac asks, digging into his pancakes. Courfeyrac is testing out veganism lately, and this is one of the very few vegan brunch places in the Upper West Side. “That seems very unlike Grantaire.”

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn't ever get the wrong idea about you. You want nothing to do with him, and he seems pretty clear on that.”

“I don't want nothing to do with him.”

It's an old argument, or it's becoming one, and Enjolras is sick of having it.

“I don't owe him anything,” he says. “It's not my fault he has a crush on me or whatever—”

“No one is saying you owe him anything,” Combeferre says, calming as always. “It's not about that. It's about not treating someone—someone who is just as much a contributor to our cause as anyone else, someone who is friends with all your friends—like complete shit.”

“I don't do that,” Enjolras says, even though he knows he does. 

As if reading his mind, Courfeyrac and Combeferre look at him skeptically.

“Well, fine,” Enjolras says. “I _do_ , but it's mostly by accident. I never know what's going to upset him, and what he'll think is funny, and what he'll misunderstand.”

“That's the point of _talking_ ,” Courfeyrac says, as if this is some very obvious point that Enjolras is somehow missing. 

“I don't need to talk to people to know that we're not compatible,” Enjolras says.

“Then why did you sign up for the class?” Courfeyrac says, and he's grinning so widely that he reminds Enjolras of a drunk cat or something. Alice in Wonderland. What was that cat called? “I mean, if it wasn't to learn all about Grantaire's interests, then why?”

“I just thought that if so many people were so interested in art history, that it must be worth knowing. I study international human rights, after all, and part of decolonizing human rights is in gaining a deeper understanding of the people whose rights you're attempting to instill or restore, and so taking an art history class seemed like the best option. That way I can have a basis for the analysis of all art, and hopefully from there I can better understand the cultures which produce it.”

“That's … a little better than usual,” Combeferre says. “It looks like Grantaire's working wonders.”

“I still think it's bullshit,” says Courfeyrac. “We're your best friends. If you can't share with us, who can you share with?”

“I don't have anything to share,” Enjolras says, stabbing at his vegan bacon as if it has personally caused him affront.

*

It is irritating to no end that everyone has paired up for Valentine's Day—or, in the case of Musichetta and Bossuet and Joly, tripled up. Enjolras isn't even sure that's a phrase, but if it is, that's what they've done.

He supposes he can't begrudge all of them their happiness, even if Combeferre _insisted_ that his date wasn't a date at all (“She's just going to start teaching me how to swim, seriously, it's insane that I grew up _on the coast_ and never learned.” “Okay, Combeferre, but if you want it to be a date, maybe you should say something,” Enjolras replied to that, causing both Courfeyrac and Combeferre to snort in indignation). Courfeyrac's date can barely even be considered a date—he's on what he calls a “sad sex hunt,” because apparently his favorite thing to do is “fuck the happy back into” recently scorned lovers. Enjolras turned down the invitation to accompany him. 

And Jehan is free, Enjolras supposes, but Jehan told him very early that morning that he's spending the entire day writing poetry at the High Line. And Enjolras isn't opposed to reading or something while someone else works—how can he be?—but it's February, and it's cold, and even he has his limits. 

In any case, Enjolras finds himself in a lonely corner of the library on Valentine's Day, eating half-defrosted sushi from the cafe downstairs. He sends a Snapchat of this to Combeferre and Courfeyrac to guilt them, but neither of them replies, and so Enjolras merely stares at the blank screen on his laptop.

The thing is, he's been good this semester. It's only been a few weeks, and he's still caught up on all his readings—he's even ahead in one class because he's somewhat infatuated with the professor, who has wound up on the “Most Dangerous Professors in America” list more than once—and all he has to do is a short assignment for his intro art history lecture.

It's gotten a little ridiculous, Enjolras's hiding in that class. He gets there late and leaves early, and he's lucky the professor keeps it so dark for her slideshows or he would be royally fucked. He ensures that Grantaire is never the one grading his homework assignments. He debated dropping the class and continuing to attend lectures, but eventually realized that even he does not have the discipline to continue to attend a lecture on a topic he's only just become interested in if he doesn't technically have to.

It strikes Enjolras that he has free time, and that the reason he is so bored is that he's Enjolras. He doesn't _have_ free time. He's been in twenty extracurriculars since has was three years old. He's done everything from piano to debate to one ill-fated stint at fencing. He's scheduled most of his life to the minute since his father bought him a palm pilot in the fifth grade. He doesn't know what to do. He is—for lack of a better term—bored.

Enjolras has been bored before. He's been in classes where he was much too smart for the material, been at dinner parties before he had the courage to talk back where he spent the entire meal biting his tongue and then eventually staring listlessly at his plate of food. He's found some professors monotonous and some subjects incapable of captivating him. He's zoned out in class, in the middle of conversations, during movies and TV shows.

But none of it has been the I-have-nothing-to-do type of boredom he's experiencing right now. Even on vacation with his parents, he sat on the beach with his iPad, studying the loopholes in the school's bylaws. And now, Enjolras has even satisfied his own perfectionism at that.

And so Enjolras finds himself on Facebook, clicking absently through his friends' pictures. 

It is, he supposes, the most pathetic way to spend Valentine's Day. It could only be made worse with a bottle of wine and a tub of ice cream, neither of which sounds particularly bad right now. 

He exits Facebook forcefully at that thought, slams down on his mouse until the tab disappears, and then he opens the documents for rules of protest.

They're bullshit, he decides, carefully written so that the student body will protest nicely, and when have nice protests ever won a war? Because that _is_ what they're fighting—he knows it, and Combeferre knows it, and Courfeyrac, and Feuilly, and the rest of them. When the school pays its maintenance staff minimum wage even as they work sixty or eighty hours a week but increases the pay for the president and refuses to listen when everyone protests—that's a war. When the school ignores half the women on campus's claims that they've been assaulted, when it refuses to protect its own students or provide them with adequate healthcare—that's a war. 

When a government fails to protect its people, it is no longer a valid government. Every one of Enjolras's instincts insists that, for all of John Locke's faults, on that he is absolutely correct.

The school has failed to protect them. It has failed to provide for its employees. It has failed. 

That is grounds for revolution.

*

Enjolras will never admit it if anyone asks him, but he is no better than all his sex-obsessed, partying classmates. Well—he can control himself a little better, he supposes. He rarely gets drunk, and when he does he treats his hangovers like a punishment that he must work through rather than an excuse to get out of doing things. He doesn't run around having sex with anything that walks. He doesn't really understand the impulse. Grantaire does it all the time, Enjolras knows—he's walked in on him at least once or twice, and anyway he watches him at parties.

Enjolras doesn't get it, doesn't get how someone can form the necessary connection for sex without first establishing a prior relationship. He doesn't work like that. He knows there are names for this, knows that this is something other than the norm, and he doesn't like to think about it because it distracts him from lurching onward toward his goals. 

But to the point: he isn't really any better than the rest of them. 

He's been staring at his phone all night, which makes no sense because all of his friends are on Valentine's Day dates, except for maybe Grantaire, who Enjolras is pretty sure doesn't have an exclusive significant other.

So that's it, then: he's waiting for Grantaire to text. More and more lately, Enjolras has to think through all his thoughts and impulses, to treat them like complex logical arguments that he has to decipher for one of his ethics classes. 

It's not like Grantaire even texts Enjolras all that much. He gets what he's sure are the occasional mass Snapchats that everyone gets, and every now and then there's an email with some attached ABC logo or concept art, but Enjolras thinks he's probably the member of the ABC that's in the least contact with Grantaire. Even Combeferre talks to Grantaire, and they riff on things like music and hair, both of which Enjolras doesn't often bother with except as political statements—he knows it's cliché, but Pink Floyd's The Wall is as close to formative as any music gets for Enjolras—and Courfeyrac smokes up with Grantaire occasionally, Enjolras thinks.

It's just strange, how quickly Grantaire entered his life, settled himself into the cracks and rifts there—and somehow it's even stranger how well Grantaire avoids Enjolras. Enjolras doesn't know if that means Grantaire can't stand him, or if maybe he just thinks of Enjolras as something untouchable, intangible, more an idea than a person. That would explain the paintings Jehan and Eponine keep hinting at, at least.

They've never hung out anywhere other than the ABC, the Musain, and ABC-related events and parties. They've certainly never hung out alone, unless he counts the time Grantaire showed up in their building's lounge obviously stoned out of his mind and started talking about fucking _butterflies_ of all things, like some absurd manic pixie dream girl or something. _Butterflies_. It'd be charming if it were anyone but Grantaire.

Enjolras wants to text Grantaire. He doesn't like the thought, doesn't trust the impulse, and so instead, Enjolras turns away from his phone and opens a new tab on his computer.

He doesn't masturbate often. He doesn't really like porn. He finds a lot of it exploitative, and when it's not exploitative it's often not in very high definition, and Enjolras is a lot of things and an HD snob is most definitely one of them.

Enjolras exhales and finds some porn anyway.

*

Enjolras dreams of Grantaire laughing, that beautiful full bodied laugh, where it starts with his ridiculous smile and evolves until it's curled its way through his body. His shoulders shake. His chest heaves. One of his feet stomps on the ground. One of his fists pounds his other knee.

Grantaire is laughing at _him_ , Enjolras realizes—he's laughing at something Enjolras has said, one of his ideas, the cause, Enjolras himself. He's laughing so hard that it drowns out everything else, until Enjolras feels like he's stuck in a whirlpool of Grantaire's laughter.

Enjolras wakes up in a cold sweat and doesn't fall back asleep.

*

“You're making everything so hard for yourself,” Courfeyrac tells him as they walk to class together, both huddled against the bitter cold, Courfeyrac's scarf wrapped up around his head.

“No, I'm not,” Enjolras says, clutching his coffee in one gloved hand and tucking the other against his chest. 

“Just say something to him. You like him. He likes you.”

“That's not true,” Enjolras says. “I think he's frustrating. He thinks I'm an asshole.”

“You _are_ an asshole. And he _is_ frustrating.”

“All the more reason to leave it at that, then.”

“Fine,” Courfeyrac says. “But I still think you're over-complicating things.”

*

Grantaire used to be an odd flicker of movement at the corner of his eye, and when Enjolras wasn't paying attention, Grantaire started to take up more and more of his vision, and now sometimes Enjolras swears Grantaire is all he can see.

It's not his fault he missed it, really. He stretches himself too thin: he knows he does this. He is not, for all the jokes, Apollo. He cannot manage the ABC and six classes and his internship at a lefty newspaper _and_ pay attention to every drunken artist who wanders into his life.

It doesn't help that Enjolras has to interact with Grantaire's boyfriends and girlfriends at seemingly every turn. Apparently he and Cosette used to have a thing, which is somewhat appalling to Enjolras. It's not that Grantaire is untrustworthy or unfriendly or even unattractive, and it doesn't bother Enjolras when his friends have sex with lots of people, or at least, it doesn't bother him when Courfeyrac has sex with lots of people. 

It's just that Grantaire has this way of leaning back in his chair so that it's balanced precariously on only its two back legs, and then looking across the room at Enjolras like he's the only thing Grantaire can see, and Enjolras gets how that can be alluring. It provides such a jarring contrast from the other Grantaire, the Grantaire that slumps forward with his head in his arms, asleep. In one way he is the maddening sharp artist that Enjolras knows, and in the other the worthless drunk that Enjolras suspects lies beneath the edges of his exterior. Both sides irritate Enjolras to no end, but in very different ways. One, he fears, is always laughing at him, mocking everything he believes in—and the other doesn't see Grantaire's potential and so wastes it on particularly clever ways to drink in public. Enjolras understands how either can be attractive, the sharp wit that makes one want to argue and, for Grantaire, always seems to turn into flirtation—or the doomed drunk that makes one want to save him. 

It's like manipulation, except Enjolras doesn't know if Grantaire even knows he's doing it.

And it's not just Cosette who has gone for it: there are others, too—Benji, who Enjolras saw leaving Grantaire's room at three o clock one morning, and Christina, who actually ran into Enjolras on her way to the floor bathroom from Grantaire's room one day, and of course, Montparnasse, who is just the fucking worst. He's been trying to get a good story on the ABC for months, but Enjolras can't stand the campus newspaper, thinks it's more often than not an easy outlet for the administration to pass their opinions on to students in watered down formats. The editors insist that there is no administrative input at all, but Enjolras doesn't buy it at all.

“I don't care that you don't like him,” Courfeyrac says. “Just because he's fucking Grantaire, doesn't mean he's an asshole. And even if he is an asshole, he's still the editor you need to talk to.”

This is another old argument, but this time it has special relevance: Courfeyrac is out of town for model UN and he needs Enjolras to meet with the paper about the ABC's upcoming invasion of the president's house.

“You don't have to give them any details,” Courfeyrac says. “Just tell them where to be, and why.”

“Can't I just meet with the _Times_?”

“Sure, if you have the connections and want to risk the ABC being seen as a bunch of psychos on a national stage. But I would've thought you'd like giving the opportunity to a smaller paper.”

“What about the _Gazette_?”

“Go meet with Montparnasse,” Courfeyrac says. “I'm tired of having this argument with you.”

This much is clear: Courfeyrac is one of those people who so rarely snaps, who spends all of his time supporting other people until he's completely exhausted himself. The semester is in full gear, and Courfeyrac has a model UN conference, and they've been spending so much time working on the ABC rally recently, and Enjolras is most definitely being difficult.

“You're right,” he says. “Hey, Courf—get some sleep, okay?”

“ _When_?” Courfeyrac says, and then sighs. Enjolras can feel the anger seeping out of him, even over the phone like this. “I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Have fun,” Enjolras says.

“I'll try,” Courfeyrac replies.

Enjolras ascends the steps to the newspaper offices at last. He enters without knocking, and, because Enjolras has that kind of dumb luck, Montparnasse is sitting at a computer by the door.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” Montparnasse says, looking him up and down. “You're here to meet with me and a reporter, right?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “Uh—everything we talk about right now is off the record, right?”

“If you want,” Montparnasse says. 

He looks like he's sizing Enjolras up. He's staring at the collar of Enjolras's shirt, which Enjolras is pretty sure came from one of his mother's housekeeper's shopping trips. Enjolras fiddles with it, and Montparnasse smiles. His canines dip below the rest of his teeth, making him look oddly animal.

“So I just wanted to let you know—the ABC is having. Well, kind of a rally.”

“And you got it cleared with the university's protest committee?”

“Sort of,” Enjolras says. “Basically, I'm here to tell you and your reporter that it'll probably be bigger than expected.”

“Okay,” Montparnasse says. “Can we schedule an interview to talk more about it?”

“I'm free right now.”

“You said this whole meeting was off the record. I don't really want to violate journalistic ethics codes—or libel laws, and I'm sure with your name, you'd come for everything.”

“I'm not my father,” Enjolras says. “Actually, he's offered to help fund the ABC for the semester.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Who says it's in exchange for anything?” Enjolras says. “He's my father.”

“I know people like you, and they don't do anything for nothing. So what'd you give him?”

Enjolras doesn't answer: he's still irritated to no end that he had to promise his summer to an internship at Enjolras Industries, and he really doesn't want to fucking talk about it, so he shrugs instead. 

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “So: on the record. The ABC is hosting a rally to protest the administration's treatment of its minority students and employees. That includes women, maintenance workers, trans students, and criminalized black and brown students and employees.”

“That's very one-size-fits-all,” the reporter says. “Would you say the critique often leveled at the ABC—that it lacks a direction—has any validity?”

“Not at all,” Enjolras says. “The ABC has a distinct direction: toward progress. We aim to eradicate the various inequalities that plague our campus, but we aren't naïve. We know progress doesn't happen over night. We've all been disappointed by humanity—our goal is just to ensure that, as we as a species and as a community grow, we disappoint ourselves less.”

“Well-put,” Montparnasse says. “Do you think that you as a leader espouse those qualities which you seem to prize in your future utopia?”

“Can you clarify that question?”

“Do you think that you as a leader are a friendly, non-classist, non-fascist unicorn-type individual?”

“Uh—I try to be. Not the unicorn part, but. Yes, I'd say I make every effort to rid myself of any unintentional prejudice.”

“How do you treat your fellow members of the ABC?” Montparnasse asks.

The reporter frowns: this is clearly irrelevant to his line of questioning, but Montparnasse is apparently joining in on the interview for some reason, so Enjolras sighs.

“I treat them as well as I can,” Enjolras says. “Most of them are not only members of our movement—they're also my friends.”

“What about Grantaire?”

“What _about_ Grantaire?”

“I know all his friends are your friends too, so they won't say anything about it, but he's obsessed with you and you should stop being such a dick about it. You'd be lucky to—”

“Stop,” Enjolras says. He opens his mouth, and then remembers to say, “off the record. You don't know anything about me _or_ Grantaire, so you can fuck off, to be honest. This is unrelated to the topic of our interview, and I'm not sure why you think you know anything about our situation.”

“Montparnasse, I can take it from here,” the reporter says.

“Right,” Montparnasse says. He stands, and Enjolras is surprised to find that they are within millimeters of each other's heights, though Montparnasse is much thinner than he is. “I know a lot more about Grantaire than you do, so back off,” he says.

“Grantaire's a person, not the corner booth at a restaurant,” Enjolras says. “You don't get to claim him. He's not—fucking— _territory_.”

“I'm not claiming him,” Montparnasse says. His jaw works for a moment. “Fine. Fuck you, and fuck your stupid club. All you're going to accomplish is getting arrested, just like every other protest on this campus that goes too far.”

“Not if we create the right dialogue,” Enjolras says, remembering why he needed Montparnasse in the first place. “We can effect real, meaningful change if we present this story the right way—”

The reporter is nodding in earnest, and Enjolras can tell he's already hooked. He doesn't know what it is about his voice that has this effect on people, only that he's glad that it's there, that he has control over it and not anyone else. Though he supposes anyone with a message to spread thinks like that. 

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Grantaire's says, “Other charismatic speakers: Mussolini. Charles Manson. Fidel Castro. Napoleon,” in his head.

“Napoleon wasn't all bad,” Enjolras wants to say back, but instead he looks at Montparnasse.

“You must understand,” he says. “You must know—it's impossible to choose one wrong over another. To salvage this school, we have to acknowledge the atrocities of its past and present. What the ABC is doing is _important_.”

“I didn't ask you about the ABC,” Montparnasse says. “I asked about Grantaire.”

“I've got this, Montparnasse,” the reporter says, and Montparnasse seems to remember him again. He turns abruptly and leaves the little corner they're tucked into.

“Sorry about that,” the reporter says. “Now, if you could just tell me, on the record—basically, can you say that one-wrong-over-another thing again?”

“Right,” Enjolras says. “Sure.”

The reporter smiles, all teeth, and Enjolras goes off.

*

“The reporter from the paper sent over some quotes to verify they're correct,” Combeferre says, passing Enjolras his laptop. “I thought you might want to double check, but I think they all look good.”

“I should,” Enjolras says. “Montparnasse was there. He was being … sneaky.”

“ _Sneaky_? Dude, he's the editor of a college newspaper, not Lord Voldemort. He's not even editor-in-chief.”

Combeferre scoffs: as former editor-in-chief of his high school paper, he knows all about journalism. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“You didn't see him,” he says. “He was trying to catch me saying something wrong.”

“You just don't like him because he's sleeping with Grantaire.”

“Speaking of which, why do _you_ like him?”

“This isn't about me,” Combeferre says. “This is about you.”

“But Montparnasse has a thing with Eponine, too, right?”

“By 'has a thing,' do you mean that they used to casually hook up but no longer do?”

“No longer?” Enjolras says, looking away from the screen. “Do you mean—do you think he's exclusive with Grantaire or something?”

Combeferre gives him a long, hard look. 

“You're making this harder than it needs to be.”

Enjolras ignores him. 

“The quotes are fine,” he says.

“I hate it when you're like this,” Combeferre says, unexpectedly, and Enjolras laughs.

*

But Montparnasse makes yet another person who's told Enjolras he's treating Grantaire like shit, and Montparnasse hasn't even seen them interact. Enjolras wonders what Grantaire tells Montparnasse about him. He imagines their bedtime conversations, their pillow talk—he wonders if Montparnasse is Grantaire's boyfriend, even though Grantaire doesn't seem quite the boyfriend type.

Enjolras smokes only rarely and usually socially, but he craves a cigarette now, making his way to the dance practice Cosette promised him Grantaire would be at.

He doesn't apologize, exactly, but he does thank Grantaire for the painting, and Grantaire takes it well, even if there is still that odd coldness there that always seems to be between them lately. Grantaire all but flinches away from his touch these days, which Enjolras didn't expect to hurt so much except that it comes so naturally to him to squeeze shoulders or press lower backs or grab sleeves.

With Grantaire, he has to carefully school those movements, and as they leave the dance space, Grantaire slips a Xanax in his mouth and then shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Enjolras asks.

“Can't,” Grantaire says. “Boxing season.”

Enjolras supposes it _has_ been a while since he's seen Grantaire smoke. So he does have the ability to resist some vices. That's interesting. 

“Do you mind if I …?”

Grantaire waves a hand, all nonchalance. Enjolras wonders if it's real, how little Grantaire seems to care about anything. He thinks about listening to him talk about butterflies, all those months ago, and thinks that it probably isn't. And anyway, there's something deliberate about the way Grantaire puts his hands back in his pockets.

“Where do you want to go for coffee?” Grantaire asks.

“Uh—we could try Brinks.”

“They're not BDS-friendly,” Grantaire says, arching an eyebrow like he always does. It's the most frustrating thing about Grantaire, or it would be, if Enjolras weren't currently feeling worryingly like he wants to kiss him. 

“Really?” Enjolras says. “I swear I checked before I ever got coffee there—”

“Don't worry—Omar Barghouti's not going to drop out of the sky and smite you,” Grantaire says. “Besides, I totally made that up. They could be donating to Hamas for all I know.”

“That's not a dichotomy,” Enjolras says. “Not violating the terms of BDS isn't equivalent to being part of—”

“I know, Apollo,” Grantaire says softly, and that's frustrating too, how he always cuts Enjolras off like he knows what he's going to say. And that fucking _nickname_ , like Enjolras is something cold and false and ideal. 

_Paolo Freire says that to love something is to humanize it, more or less,_ Enjolras thinks, and is surprised that for a moment he wishes for Grantaire to humanize _him_. He debates pretending to slip on the icy sidewalk just to cement his humanity, but then he does actually slip, and Grantaire's hand shoots out of his pocket to grab Enjolras's upper arm, steady him.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, quickly snatching his hand back. There is a bruise blooming over his temple, and there were more on his arms when Enjolras saw them in the practice room. His nose shows evidence of at least one break, and Enjolras knows he has a wide, flat scar running from his collar bone to just above his nipple. He is always injured. Enjolras swallows. “You okay there?”

“Winter's the worst,” Enjolras says.

“Oh, I know,” Grantaire says. “I'm so ready for spring.”

“Really? You seem like a winter guy.”

“Oh, no way,” Grantaire says. “Spring? Flowers? _Buds_ on _trees_? You've got me totally wrong.”

“Was that just one long weed joke?”

“As always, Apollo, your underestimation of me is criminal.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “Fair. You do seem like the type to be really into flowers.”

“I had a whole flowers and birds phase,” Grantaire says. “Eponine's friend Montparnasse has a tattoo of one of them, actually.”

It doesn't make any sense, the way heat flares up behind Enjolras's sternum at that. _Eponine's friend Montparnasse._ Grantaire's art, permanently branded on his skin. Enjolras tries not to picture it and fails. He thinks of Combeferre: _You're making this harder than it needs to be._

He flicks some ash off his cigarette and takes a long drag. Grantaire watches him inhale, looking at the cigarette almost hungrily. 

“Want a drag?”

“I shouldn't,” Grantaire says. 

His hands are shoved back in his pockets, his hat tugged low over his ears. There is ink on his face. There is always ink on his face, or paint, or charcoal, or even clay. It looks good there, Enjolras decides. Like Grantaire was designed with that in mind. People aren't designed, Enjolras knows: they develop as a result of generations of genetic material combined with environmental circumstances that create specific, unique individuals. People are not designed. They are random, a series of unlikely coincidences that sometimes succeed in creating beauty.

But if anyone were designed, it would be Grantaire.

Enjolras banishes that particularly traitorous thought immediately. 

“Tell me about boxing,” Enjolras says.

“Tell me about art history,” Grantaire says, grinning and arching that one maddening eyebrow. “You stalking me or something?”

It's dangerously close to being true. Enjolras means what he says, that art can help you understand a people and if you want to free all people then you have to understand them even if sometimes he finds people painfully difficult to understand—but he's gotten tired of looking at Grantaire and not understanding _him_. Taking an art history class, especially this one, with that professor, recommended by Jehan, seemed like the best way to start. If he can understand art, maybe he can understand Grantaire. 

And then Enjolras wonders if _he_ doesn't need to humanize Grantaire a little bit, but then he decides that no one is more human than Grantaire, and so instead he laughs.

“I already told you,” he says. “Art is essential to understanding humanity, and understanding humanity is essential to saving it.”

They enter the coffeeshop, and Grantaire orders both their coffees (“You look like you need something with a lot of sugar in it,” he tells Enjolras) and charms the hell out of the barista. Enjolras wonders if Grantaire even realizes he's doing it. He has this smile, crooked and warm, and he deploys it constantly: when he's making fun of himself, or when he's making fun of Enjolras, or when he's teasing or making jokes or laughing. And Grantaire doesn't even _know_. He doesn't realize that everyone adores him, that people miss him when he isn't there. That's frustrating, too. Maybe more than the eyebrow arch.

The barista is laughing, too, because Grantaire has asked her for a drink that'll put his companion into insulin shock (“Only joking, he's not diabetic. At least, I hope he's not.” That smile. A hand through his hair), something with “more caffeine than a 5 hour energy and more sugar than a Coke—but none of that corporate bullshit, you know?”

The barista hands them two cups eventually, and Grantaire's has a doodle of a flower on it, and Grantaire says goodbye and thank you and drops his change into the tip jar.

“You know,” Enjolras says, accepting his coffee. “I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who tips at coffeeshops.”

Enjolras regrets saying it immediately, because it makes the smile on Grantaire's face twist, almost, but it stays put. It's not the first time Enjolras has made Grantaire's smile sour right there on his face. He hadn't meant it like that, had only meant that Grantaire doesn't seem to pay attention to things sometimes, like he only sees the big picture or the details and never what's right in front of him—or maybe that's Enjolras, who clearly hasn't ever seen Grantaire, not really.

“I worked at one in high school,” Grantaire says. “Just wiping tables, sweeping floors. We split the tips. Sometimes we'd take home, like, a dollar each from tips. It was just—shitty, you know? It's good to show people their work is appreciated.”

“That's—” Enjolras says. “Exactly, yeah. That's why we need to work on raising minimum wage, so that it's at least a _living_ wage—otherwise how can we claim to value all people equally?”

“That's your goal, then?” Grantaire asks, laughing into his coffee. “Even here. You want to save humanity.”

“It's lofty, I know.”

“If anyone can do it, you can.”

Grantaire meets his eyes over his cup when he says it, and for a moment, Enjolras can believe that Grantaire isn't just fucking with him.

*

It goes better with Grantaire, after that.

Grantaire still mostly sleeps through meetings, and he still drinks more than anyone else at the Musain, and he still somehow gets everyone to like him so much even though half his jokes are self-deprecating bullshit that Enjolras can't tolerate—but it's different.

Enjolras doesn't know what it is. He gets Grantaire better, maybe, or Grantaire gets him better, and they still don't touch but at least Grantaire manages to smile in his direction once or twice.

“You know,” Grantaire says once, leaning over Enjolras's laptop to proofread something. 

Enjolras usually has Combeferre do it, but Grantaire is here just now, sitting beside him at the library, and anyway Grantaire is surprisingly good at this, at giving critique without sounding overly harsh and at picking up little errors. Enjolras supposes it comes with the art thing.

“You know,” Grantaire continues. “This is a lot like most popular criticism of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Who?”

“The Mother of Dragons? Khaleesi? Hot blonde but in real life she's a hot brunette?”

“Is this a TV thing?”

“It's not TV,” Grantaire says. “It's HBO.” 

For some reason, he finds this funny, and when Enjolras doesn't laugh, Grantaire frowns. 

“What?” he says.

“I'm hardly going to laugh at the joke if I don't understand it,” Enjolras says.

This makes Grantaire laugh again. “You've heard of _Game of Thrones_?”

“I guess,” Enjolras says. “That show with all the rape?”

“You haven't seen it?”

Enjolras shrugs. 

“I don't really watch TV,” he says.

“Of course you don't.”

“Well, I get bored ten minutes in,” Enjolras says, frowning. “And I'm not really supposed to take the Adderall every day, you know, only when I can tell it's going to be a bad one. Usually when I haven't slept well. And it seems like a waste to take it just to watch TV.”

To Enjolras's surprise, Grantaire looks at him almost pityingly.

“Entertainment, escapism, relaxation—that's not a waste,” says Grantaire, whom Enjolras has never seen do anything but doodle and who always looks heartbreakingly exhausted anyway.

“I don't have time to relax,” Enjolras says.

“Neither do I, and look what a disaster I've become.”

Enjolras does, looks at the fading bruise that only emphasizes the dark circles under Grantaire's eyes, looks at the hair that has grown out oddly and the chapped lips and the very, very slight tremor in Grantaire's hands.

“That wasn't a real invitation,” Grantaire says, his hands returning to Enjolras's keyboard and moving so quickly that Enjolras can't keep an eye on their tremor anymore.

*

They plan the rally with all of Grantaire's criticism from the last one in mind.

It's in the beginning of April, during the lull between the densest part of midterms and the hectic close of the semester. They provide advise everyone to leave their phones at home and which cameras to avoid looking at. They comply perfectly with every single one of the school's rules of protest until they don't. They talk it through with the heads of the Black Students Organization, the Muslim Students Association, the Sexual Assault Awareness Association, the Queer Alliance, Union Solidarity. They ensure that their members, at least, will show up.

They incentivize it, too. If people show up, they get to come to the cookie party afterward, which is mainly something Courfeyrac came up with, insisting that the _idea_ of an incentive is more important than the incentive _itself_.

And finally, they guarantee that if anyone gets suspended, it'll be the people in charge of the ABC and no one else.

*

Maybe that's why it stings so much when Grantaire tells them all it's a terrible idea. They've put weeks of planning into it, weeks, and Grantaire dismisses it with one sharp sentence.

That's probably what sparks the doubt, deep within Enjolras's belly, and he ignores it and ignores it because he's thought this through, he _has_ , and they're going to do it. They've figured it out perfectly, every single step, and the more they talk the better an idea they have, and it is going to work out exactly as they've planned it because this is Combeferre, and his plans always go off perfectly. This is Courfeyrac, who has a better understanding of what people will do than most psychologists. This is Enjolras, who has ensured that everything is right down to the very last detail.

And he knows, he _does_ , that it's dangerous, that he's putting everyone at risk. But he's ensured that everyone understands what might happen, and they've agreed to take the plunge with him, to follow him and Courfeyrac and Combeferre through what may well be the gates of hell. That's almost enough to suffocate the doubt, for Enjolras, that faith. 

It's odd, because he expects to miss the others. He expects to miss Combeferre and Courfeyrac, whom he sees every day, and Feuilly and Bahorel and Bossuet, whom he sees frequently due to their similar degrees. He expects to miss Eponine, with whom he has been close for years, and Joly and Marius, who are always there and always bright, shining presences. He expects to miss Cosette and Musichetta, too, whom he's only met recently and who have brought the ABC so much energy that he's surprised he never met them before. 

And he does miss them. He misses them the moment he steps into LaGuardia with his backpack. He knows already that he's going to hate this trip like he hates all trips with his parents, and at the same time that he should feel grateful he's going on vacation and has maintained enough of a relationship with his father to guarantee continued funding for the ABC's actions through at least his senior year. 

It's just that he misses the sound of Grantaire's voice already, and he's starting to think that maybe he was wrong about him in the first place, that maybe he can understand Grantaire's perspectives if Grantaire can understand his. Maybe Grantaire's obsession with him isn't just an obsession. Maybe he genuinely likes Enjolras. That means there's still hope. 

(“You approach everything logically,” Combeferre said to him once. “So why not Grantaire?”)

He's never quite been able to convince Grantaire of much, but Enjolras boards his flight sure that he will be able to make up with Grantaire and show him that this time, at least, Enjolras is right.

*

But then he reads the article. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's Enjolras for you! Hope you enjoyed—I really like writing unreliable narrators, but sometimes I get frustrated with the fact that nobody ever knows what anyone else is thinking/feeling/doing, really!
> 
> Next chapter is a little shorter than the rest, but I promise I'll make up for it in the chapter after that! I'm almost done writing the entire thing and I'm so excited to share the rest with you. I kind of want to just post it all right now, but I'll hold out at least until I've completely finished writing and editing.
> 
> Take the rest of this author's note as one of those really irritating footnotes from your high school Shakespeare volume's editor that you ignored unless it was telling you that something was a dick joke:
> 
> First, a disclaimer: my degree is in political theory, not classics or even literature, so I'm mostly talking on the basis of a couple of classics classes and a few lit courses and years of reading absurd amounts of critical theory for fun here (my sister tells me I'm a nerd):
> 
> Title is from [Catallus 85](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus_85), and it's Latin for “I hate and I love.” The rest of the couplet:
> 
>    
>  _I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do this?_  
>  _I do not know, but I feel it happen and I am torn apart._
> 
>  
> 
> I tend to think Enjolras and Grantaire work much better in Greek terms than Roman, but Catallus is relatively early Roman and I think the couplet works well for what's going on with Enjolras, subconsciously speaking. But yeah, if you want to hash it out about the classics—there's a lot of the Greek to Enjolras, a lot of the combination of devotion to a cause coupled with the inability to overcome the desire for glory and that repression of the inner self that ultimately has to explode or risk destroying the self itself—Enjolras _is_ repressed, or repressing, at least in my understanding (both of Hugo's text and of the fanon interpretation)—but Enjolras represses any feelings he might have that don't have to do with the Cause (Orestes fasting), and there's something of the Roman pietas about that. But the dynamic between Enjolras and Grantaire is very Greek. Very Orestes/Pylades, very Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium with a dash of the Eryxmachus and _maybe_ Diotima (there's even something of the Socrates/Alcibiades relationship in the way Enjolras repeatedly scorns Grantaire, at least in fanon). 
> 
> Akhilleus especially is fascinating because for me Grantaire and Enjolras both have elements of his greatness (I understand why people might want to immediately put Enjolras in the role of Achilles and Grantaire in the role of Patroclus, but I wouldn't) (in fact, I'd suggest reading Phaedrus' dialogue in the _Symposium_ to disabuse yourself of this idea, or at least to understand my dislike of it) and his grief. Akhilleus is to Athens what Enjolras is to Paris, but Akhilleus is to Patroklos what Grantaire is to Enjolras—if that makes sense. The idea of the two of them dying separately is unimaginable, both for the reader and for Grantaire and Enjolras. Think of the end of _Les Miserables_. They die smiling and holding hands. They even almost get this right in the 2012 film. Their relationship culminates in the moment Enjolras permits Grantaire to die for him, and that's just _so_ Greek.
> 
> I'm rambling, a bit (a lot—I think I've managed to come off at least as pretentious as my characters), and this is where I should probably tell you that if you feel like talking about Enjolras and Grantaire as classical lovers you should message me or something because this is hardly the place, and anyway their situation isn't exactly life or death in _my_ story so it's not totally relevant. I mean, it is, but not, uh … well, you'll see.
> 
> I'm going to leave you with this bit, from when Akhilleus gets news of Patroklos' death in the _Iliad_ (note that in the second passage he is talking to his mother, a goddess) (18.20, 18.90—Fitzgerald translation, admittedly not the best but what I have on hand) (my Lattimore's at the cleaners):
> 
>    
> A black stormcloud of pain shrouded Akhilleus.  
> On his bowed head he scattered dust and ash  
> in handfuls and befouled his beautiful face,  
> letting black ash sift on his fragrant khiton.  
> Then in the dust he stretched his giant length  
> and tore his hair with both hands. …  
> “My greatest friend  
> is gone: Patróklos, comrade in arms, whom I  
> held dear above all others—dear as myself—  
> now gone, lost; Hektor cut him down, despoiled him  
> of my own arms, massive and fine, a wonder  
> in all men's eyes. The gods gave them to Peleus  
> that day they put you in a mortal's bed--  
> how I wish the immortals of the sea  
> had been your only consorts! How I wish  
> Peleus had taken a mortal queen! …  
> I must reject this life, my heart tells me,  
> reject the world of men.”


	11. march, part two; or, fall out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Characters use MDMA and cocaine in this chapter. Also, general warning for bleakness goes double.

Grantaire misses boxing practice the next morning and, subsequently, the rest of boxing season.

*

The rest of the week passes in a drunken blur. Grantaire wakes up, blinks at the sunlight streaming in his window, and rolls over and goes back to sleep.

*

They publish the article the last Friday before spring break.

It's a good plan on Montparnasse's part because by then Grantaire has completely forgotten writing it—and it's getting worrying now, how often he's forgetting things after drinking—and people are just irritated enough at being at school that they'll happily be pissed off about anything. Some people have already gone on their exotic vacations. Everyone left is in a shitty mood. No one feels nostalgia before spring break, not for the people or the classes or the environment, and that breeds the perfect grounds for anger and vitriol.

The op-ed spreads over social media like wildfire.

It's anonymous, which means that no one knows it's him, but he's the only person in the ABC who doesn't believe in its stupid fucking message so everyone he knows _must_ know it's him. But none of his friends—can he even call them that anymore?—have contacted him.

It's just that—Grantaire was sort of fine with it all when he was someone Enjolras mostly ignored. He really was. He can take dismissal from someone who doesn't like him, someone who doesn't think much of him.

It was the change in Enjolras that hurt the most. 

He supposes it wasn't abrupt. Enjolras hated him at first, of course he did, because Grantaire immediately insulted him and then spent every moment afterward deliberately antagonizing him. But they talked, and they were on all right terms even if Enjolras mostly ignored him, but then Enjolras just had to go and show up to dance practice and say, in that beautiful lilting voice of his, “ _Thank you_ ,” and say, “ _I'm in your art history class_ ,” like it was a declaration of something meaningful and not a statement of mere coincidence.

Enjolras never even touched him, when he could avoid it. In hindsight, Grantaire knows, it was monumentally fucking stupid to believe that Enjolras, who could charm the color onto a newspaper, felt something for him other than distaste. There's no evidence for it. That means everything with Enjolras wasn't the beginning of something—it was just coincidence. We're in the same class—let's grab a coffee. You live in my building—could you look over my paper. It's late and we're at the same table at the library—maybe we can get something to eat on our way home. The same courtesies you'd extend to a stranger who happened to live nearby. Enjolras always looks at Grantaire like he's a particularly difficult math problem, but Grantaire _isn't_ math, and he doesn't want to be looked at like a problem. 

It's not Enjolras's fault, Grantaire supposes, which is why it's unfair that Grantaire has taken it out on Enjolras and the rest of the ABC when he should have taken it out on himself.

And still, no one texts him.

Grantaire turns his phone off and indulges in the last of his whiskey and goes to sleep.

*

Grantaire wakes up to banging on his door.

He's expecting it to be Eponine, or Joly, or Bossuet and his crutches, or Cosette, or even Enjolras, but it's not.

It's Davy, the boxing captain, and he looks worried.

“Hey, man,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, even though he must look horrible.

“Listen,” Davy says. “The last meet was last night. We lost.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says.

“Coach wanted to make you captain for next season, but after this week …”

“I figured,” Grantaire says.

“I came to get you. Since you're not answering your phone or anything.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says.

“Hey, man, did something happen?” Davy asks, frowning. “This isn't like you.”

“This is exactly like me.”

Davy's frown deepens. He reaches out, tugs Grantaire into a one-armed hug.

“Whatever it is, it'll be okay, bro.”

The sentiment is so real that Grantaire's eyes start to sting, and he swats at them before backing away from Davy's sturdy form.

“Get in the shower,” Davy says, and all at once his friendly exterior is gone, replaced by his game face: the look he gets when he's being Captain Davy and not just Friendly Jock Bro Davy. “I'll pick out some clothes. Go. Brush your teeth. You're coming to the end of season party.”

*

Grantaire leaves his phone at home.

It's a standard jock party: lots of beer, lots of pong, lots of girls. Loud top 40 rap. Almost no lighting anywhere except over the pong table. Some people stripping the bed of its mattress and using the baseboard for flip cup.

Bossuet is not there.

A sophomore hits on him during a game of pong. She has bold eyebrows, a nose ring, and red red lipstick. She looks at him across the table, and her ball lands squarely in Grantaire's last cup.

He drinks it, and she smiles.

Grantaire goes home with her if only to get out of his own head for a bit. Davy claps him on the back as he leaves—“Looking better already, bro!”—but Grantaire ignores him. 

He stumbles back to his room early the next morning and goes to sleep.

*

The next time Grantaire wakes up, he finds himself out of alcohol, dangerously hungover, and exhausted.

He never does well with that much cheap beer, especially after days of drinking bottom shelf whiskeys and vodkas. His stomach is a mess, and he expels most of its contents into the floor bathroom before deciding he's going to continue to drink anyway.

When he checks the time, he sees that he's supposed to have been on the bus to his art retreat three hours ago, but he can't make himself care much about it. 

It's too early for liquor stores to be open, so Grantaire goes to the nearest deli, buys two six packs of cheap beer—it's all he can find this early, and at least it's lighter than _more_ hard liquor—and takes it back to his studio.

He doesn't remember being here over the last few days, but there are clear signs that he has: there are open tubes of watercolor paint lying on the floor, and he immediately caps them and hopes they're salvageable; the room is covered in empty bottles and a few cups filled with dirty water; all his brushes are dirty; and, perhaps most tellingly, there is all this _art_.

Grantaire hates himself for thinking it, but it's some of the best work he's done in months, certainly the best this semester. They're all paintings of himself, drowning, though he's not sure anyone else would recognize them as such: some of them are just sheets of paper covered in dark blue with faint outlines of something green that could be seaweed or could be a person. Others are darker, paintings of buried treasure wrapped in seaweed with a human skeleton in the opposite corner almost completely obscured by the murky water. 

He sighs and gets to work.

*

This means that it's well into spring break by the time Grantaire finally sees or hears from anyone in the ABC.

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that it's Joly who is leaning on Grantaire's door when Grantaire comes home from the studio Tuesday.

“Hi,” Joly says.

“Hi,” Grantaire says. 

He's pretty high, has smoked himself out of all of his weed, and has been debating texting Montparnasse for something stronger for a few hours. It would be nice, Grantaire thinks, to go to a club on some molly and close his eyes and feel only the physical for a little while. It's good that he made up with Montparnasse, considering he's the only person currently in contact with him. ( _op-ed's blowing up r! thanks for writing x_ or _we sold a bunch more ad space, all down to you & white men's fear of the politically correct._ All of which is—not the point, but Grantaire doesn't say that.)

“Are you okay?” Joly says.

Grantaire stares at him.

Joly stares back.

“I was going to ask you why you did it,” he says, “but I think I already know why.”

This is such a horrifying departure from Joly's typical demeanor that Grantaire is silent for a moment, staring at him. It's been days since he's seen any of his friends. Joly might well be an apparition, a hallucination brought on by some lethal combination of weed and paint fumes.

“Because I'm pathetic,” Grantaire says at last. “I know.”

“No,” Joly says. “You were trying to protect your friends.”

That, Grantaire thinks, is more than he deserves.

“I'm going to sleep,” he says. “Please leave.”

“Bossuet sends his love, but he can't get up the stairs at the front of the building.”

“Why aren't you angry at me?”

“I am,” Joly says, his eyes flicking up to meet Grantaire's. “By the way, only Bahorel went to Phillips Exeter. Full scholarship.”

“Joly,” Grantaire says.

“All of your friends,” Joly says. “Every single one of them.”

“I—” Grantaire says, and finds that he doesn't know what to say.

“You just.” 

Joly stops, looks down at his feet, and then back at Grantaire, and Grantaire is surprised to see how wounded he looks. One of his best friends. He's fucked up. He's fucked so badly he doesn't have any idea how he's going to come back from it. 

“You didn't have to be such an asshole about it,” Joly says.

He leaves and doesn't look back. 

Grantaire goes into his room and goes to sleep. Later, he won't know if this interaction was a dream or not.

*

His phone is vibrating, a number from a different country blinking on its screen. Figuring that must be safe enough, Grantaire answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Enjolras says.

His voice sounds distant on the phone, like Grantaire is on speaker, but then there's the sound of fingers fumbling, and then Enjolras says, “Sorry. Hi.”

His voice sounds much closer now. Grantaire curls up into a tighter ball on his bed and focuses on Jehan's framed poem opposite him. He can't see it from his distance, but he knows it almost by heart. _His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him._

“Hi,” Grantaire says.

“I've been told I'm supposed to call you,” Enjolras says.

There's something mechanical about Enjolras's voice filtered through the phone lines, but Grantaire can hear him breathing. His whole body tenses a little.

“How are you?” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire can almost hear the smile in Enjolras's voice, and it surprises him. The last time they spoke, Enjolras yelled at Grantaire, and Grantaire saw that fragile little friendship they built up shatter before him, saw Enjolras recognize him for a pathetic fraud of an artist, student, person. Or at least, he thought he did.

But he's done it now. He really has. If there's even a chance that Enjolras didn't feel disdain or contempt or dislike for him before, it's gone now. Enjolras's angles softened, but when he reads Grantaire's op-ed, they'll come back, sharper than ever.

“Have you been told why you're supposed to call me?” Grantaire asks.

“No.”

Enjolras sounds so lovely, so charming, even over the phone, that Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut. He would follow Enjolras into a war. He'd follow Enjolras to hell. So why, _why_ could Grantaire not have just held it together? Why couldn't he just have followed him to the president's house? He stills thinks he was right, but—at what cost?

“Do you not have internet right now or something?” he says.

“As a matter of fact,” Enjolras says. “I don't. I'm calling you from a hotel in Jamaica. It might cost you a lot of money. You can send me the bill. I just wanted to tell you—about the other day—”

“Don't,” Grantaire says, his voice breaking. “Don't.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and his voice is unbelievably gentle, like Grantaire has never heard it before. “What happened?”

“You were right,” Grantaire says.

“About what?”

“You shouldn't waste your money on me.”

“It's not a waste. I want to talk to you.” 

There's a moment's pause, and Enjolras starts to say something, and Grantaire almost hopes that Enjolras is going to tell him he misses him, but then he just fucking _can't_ anymore, can't listen, can't think, can't _feel_ —

“I have to go,” Grantaire says, and hangs up.

*

_Grantaire,_

_You didn't show up to your art retreat. We talked about this. Is everything okay?_

_-JV_

*

Grantaire can't say why he did it.

It's not like he's told everyone at the school that Enjolras is planning to burn the president's house down or whatever. He's just said the truth: the ABC is something of an impotent organization, an instance of the bourgeoisie leading the proletariat into—nothing. Not much, anyway.

The ABC is a pipe dream, a fantasy, and Grantaire was drunk and upset.

Not that that's an excuse.

*

_The author of this piece is right on the money. Political correctness is the biggest threat to freedom of speech since communism._

*

_You know, the author raises some good points, but I have to say, I don't think that based on the neo-liberal hetero-masculine capitalist society in which he lives that he is necessarily the person we should be looking to for this kind of call out culture._

*

_who rrrr you, anon?_

*

_this is 100% true abt student groups on this campus. ballsy ass op ed. thx for writing it._

*

_It seems to me that the author here confuses the purposes of the ABC for his or her dislike of the leadership. He or she is right that the elites leading the weak is not quite what a revolution should be, but elites must fund the revolution in order for it to be successful. That is what Marx tells us: we need the bourgeoisie because, until the class hierarchy is broken, we must continue to operate within it. This is why freeganism is bullshit._

*

_The ABC is a bunch of rich gays who disguise revere racism, reverse sexism, and heterophobia as progressivism. It's a perfect demonstration of what's wrong with American “liberalism” in 2015._

**reply:** _I think you've misunderstood what liberalism is._

*

_This is what happens when you let cis het straight rich white men run social justice clubs._

*

_I think this is a good start, but the author seems to have a truly vitriolic hatred for the ABC in particular when in fact these problems are present in all social justice clubs on campus. He or she does not even begin to critique the fact that for someone at our particular institution to lead such a club is a privilege in and of itself—it is evidence of a certain amount of freedom of speech, for one, but more than that it is evidence that even within America they are more privileged than the average person. Few people get to attend universities, after all, fewer still ones as prestigious as ours—I just wish the author had spoken more on this. That he or she doesn't is evidence of his or her single-mindedness._

*

They've made up, Grantaire knows, but there's still a cold unsettling feeling to knowing Montparnasse is not quite on your side. He carries a knife in one pocket, which Grantaire noticed the first time they ever hooked up his freshman year, before he even know about his on-again off-again thing with Eponine.

Sometimes there's another knife on Montparnasse's body. Grantaire hasn't ever seen him use it on a person, but once or twice Montparnasse has wanted a bottle opened or an apple sliced and just produced a blade from seemingly nowhere. 

It's creepy, and not at all the type of behavior one would expect from an a cappella-singing, newspaper-editing, perfect-GPA-earning student like Montparnasse. But he does it anyway, and it means that he always seems like he's on the verge of slitting your throat.

Especially when he no longer looks at you like—

Like he actually likes you, Grantaire realizes, and it surprises him that it hurts that Montparnasse doesn't seem to care for him at all anymore. And then it surprises him that he still has the capacity to care about his friends not caring for him anymore at all.

“What are you looking for?”

“Molly,” Grantaire says. 

“I have some I can sell you at a discount. For the article. Got us lots of views—thanks for that. Really popular.”

Grantaire stays silent.

“A lot of typos, though,” Montparnasse adds. “Took forever to edit. Were you drunk or something?”

Grantaire doesn't reply.

“Of course you were,” Montparnasse says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. I can make sure it's not cut with anything weird. The molly, I mean.”

“For old times sake?” Grantaire says.

“Because I'd rather you not die during a binge and have it traced back to me,” Montparnasse says, voice not betraying a single emotion. “How much do you want?”

*

Grantaire has always hated being alone. He sometimes feels like he can't physically stand his own company, like he wants to crawl out of his skin and into anyone else's just for the sake of being around someone other than _Grantaire_.

That feeling only gets amplified when he's upset. 

He spends his spring break vacillating wildly between self-punishment in the form of forced solitude—painting, drinking in his studio, listening to Nick Cave songs on the floor of his dorm room (smoking all the while, of course)—and going out to bars or clubs or, his personal favorite, warehouse parties. There's something about being in a big darkened room with all those people and exposed piping, knowing that once, this space had a purpose, and now its only purpose is this inebriated togetherness, this drunken community, that Grantaire relishes. He takes drugs when offered, buys drinks, gets his dick sucked in bathrooms, feels disgusting, but at least, at least, at least he's not alone.

And now, Grantaire is dancing.

The molly wasn't cheap despite Montparnasse's discount, but he's been saving up from his TA-ing, and he's thinking of picking up some shifts at the library again because now that boxing is over and he's pretty much done with the ABC, his schedule has completely opened up.

Grantaire is dancing, and everything feels wonderful. He feels warm but not too warm, happy but not too happy. Every body that brushes against his lights him on fire in the best way. He feels like right now he could save the world, if he wanted, but he doesn't. He just wants to keep dancing.

The DJ blasts music that Grantaire can feel from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes, pulsing, throbbing through him.

There is a girl dancing in front of him, pressing her ass against his crotch, and there's a guy with his hands around Grantaire's waist from behind, and Grantaire loves both of them. They are the best friends he's ever known, and he only met them an hour, a few minutes, ten seconds ago. He dances with them, swaying and grinding and when the girl turns around he kisses her, and when the guy behind him kisses Grantaire's neck Grantaire doesn't stop dancing.

*

Someone has been banging on Grantaire's door for five minutes before Grantaire can work up the strength to get out of bed.

It actually surprises him to realize that he's at school in his own dorm room. He's hungover, coming down from some coke he did in a Williamsburg nightclub the night before, and so physically exhausted that the thought of using his wrist muscles to open the door brings bile into the back of his throat.

He does it anyway, hoping in vain that it'll be someone with food—Davy, perhaps, or even Joly, who is upset with him but still seems to overall care about his well-being.

But it's not. It's Enjolras.

“I fucking knew it,” Enjolras says.

The spots high on his cheeks that so frequently turn bright pink at the sight of Grantaire are a deathly white now. He has freckled again, and the tip of his nose is pink from sunburn. He's still wearing his coat, blood-red. He is holding his laptop in his arms, and it is open, and he seems livid. His voice is careful, controlled, quiet. Grantaire hasn't ever seen Enjolras like this: his rage is not merely righteous; it's also the rage of betrayal, which Grantaire thinks is rich considering Enjolras clearly never thought of _him_ as a friend.

“You're a little late,” Grantaire says.

He still feels drunk, a little high, a throbbing ache in his skull and the room all a-spin.

“I just got back, and I was under strict internet embargo,” Enjolras says, and not for the first time Grantaire wonders what the fuck is wrong with Enjolras's parents. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“I don't care,” Grantaire says, but he can feel the anger coming off Enjolras in waves. 

He doesn't know why his instinct, his impulse, is always to fight back with Enjolras. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe he should play the docile pet instead, or even the pathetic lovelorn desperate friend. Grantaire feels, unbidden, a sudden sick hatred for Enjolras, so violent that it makes him want to throw up.

Enjolras hasn't noticed this. He's staring at Grantaire, waiting for some kind of a reaction, or excuse, or maybe even apology.

When it doesn't come, he starts to read.

“'In French,'” Enjolras reads off his laptop, “'the ABC is pronounced like l'Abaissé—the lowly—which is exactly the kind of ironic joke you'd love if you sat through one of their meetings. Instead, you get the school's most elite students leading some of the school's poorest, like some kind of fucked up underground railroad where instead of Harriet Tubman you have Tagg Romney.'”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras as he lurches in and out of Grantaire's vision. He looks away, scanning his room for his flask. 

“What the _fuck_ , Grantaire?” Enjolras says. 

“Come on,” Grantaire says. “You have to admit—that bit is funny.”

“I knew you weren't serious about this,” Enjolras says. “I knew it—everything you said, every time you argued or pretended to care—none of that was real? You told me I underestimated you, but that wasn't true? You lied?”

His sentences go up at the end like they're questions, but he doesn't wait for an answer. He looks horrified. He looks horrifying. He keeps reading, the desperation ebbing from his voice, replaced by a cold, sturdy calm.

“'Everyone in the ABC pronounces either like eye-ther. This isn't annoying until you realize it's the kind of affected English they've all put deliberate effort into adopting. It's difficult to claim such a group is “of the people” when it sounds so much like it's “of Phillips Exeter,” but the president manages it.'”

“Enjolras—”

“You're wrong,” Enjolras says. “You're wrong and you lied.”

“I didn't _lie_ , that's all true—”

“You lied _to me_ ,” Enjolras says again, like a statement this time. 

Grantaire is surprised to find how much this stings. He turns away, looking through his sheets for his alcohol.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Because I want an explanation!”

“You seem to have one already.”

“So that's it?” Enjolras says. “You haven't cared all along? Why did you come, then, if you hated us so much?”

“I didn't hate you.”

“Well, it sounds an awful lot like you do,” Enjolras says. He's so quiet now that Grantaire has to strain to hear him. “All the commenters seem to think so.”

“O, Apollo,” Grantaire says, finding his flask at last and drinking deeply, but it's of very little use. “Maybe I'm malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my Apollo, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me?”

“What is that?” Enjolras says. “Ovid?”

Grantaire sighs. 

“Although thou canst not be my bride, thou shalt be called my chosen tree, fair Apollo.”

“ _Be serious!_ ” Enjolras snaps. 

It's such a departure from his previous tone and volume that it grounds Grantaire, brings him shakily back to reality. One or two people peek out from behind their doors, wondering why there's yelling in the hallway. Grantaire has never been scared of Enjolras before, but now he sees what he's like when he's turned his voice from giving speeches that convince people to sacrifice their futures for his stupid revolution into anger, a command. This is the other side of the coin: it's not hopeful, or inspiring, or biting, the way his speeches are. It's just barely-controlled rage. Fire used to destroy rather than create.

“I felt _sorry_ for you!” Enjolras shouts. “I was going to apologize! But I was right, wasn't I? I was right all along? You never cared?”

At this, all the fight goes out of Grantaire at once. The hatred that reared itself so unexpectedly at Enjolras's questioning seeps back out of Grantaire now, replaced by some combination of cold agony and exhaustion.

Grantaire drinks from his flask.

“Are you fucking kidding,” Enjolras says, voice flat, all the question gone out of it.

“The sovereign charm for all our woes,” Grantaire says. “Leave me alone, Enjolras.”

Enjolras stares at him, and then all at once the color rushes back into his face. 

“I knew it,” he says. “I _knew_ it.”

“I guess so,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras looks at him for a moment longer, and then turns abruptly and leaves.

*

Grantaire dreams of Cosette singing, her voice high and clear and haunting. She's singing something popular and recent, just out of tune enough that Grantaire can't place it.

_Someone told me that I'd run too far away ..._

Her voice ricochets off the insides of Grantaire's skull, echoes in his ears, makes Grantaire inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale. 

He dreams of himself, doing yoga positions while the room fills up with the sound of Cosette's voice.

It's calming, somehow, helps guide Grantaire's meditation, helps ground him even in the absurd heat of the room he's doing yoga in.

_… someone told me I should just give in and stay ..._

And then it warps, twists, like someone's taken a fucked up synth to it and then played it through a broken speaker.

Grantaire sits up in bed, his hair sticking to the side of his face. 

It's eight in the morning, and he's about ninety percent sure he's not even on campus right now.

This is becoming a habit.

The person lying next to him rolls over.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” the person says.

Grantaire kisses them because he can't think of what else to do, and this is easy, and this he's good at, and this doesn't require words or thoughts or feelings at all.

*

“Grantaire, I'm worried about you.”

Valjean's face is all careful concern, the vague kind of care that Grantaire's seen on a thousand people's faces over the course of his life and way too many over the last week and a half. 

“I'm fine,” Grantaire says.

“You missed your art retreat. Your painting professor from last semester was planning on working with you—he said that you had something special and that he wanted to try to nurture it. But he couldn't. Because you didn't show up. You didn't give any warning. Do you understand why that's upsetting?”

“You aren't my parent,” Grantaire says.

“No,” Valjean says. “I'm your advisor. And this is my advice: if you want to make it in the art world, stop wasting the opportunities presented to you.”

“Are we finished?” Grantaire says.

“Professor Klein takes it as a personal insult that you don't want to present with him this summer.”

“I told you I'm not interested in presenting this summer. I want a graphic design internship.”

“How is your search for one going?”

Grantaire doesn't answer. 

“Right,” Valjean says. “I can send you more openings if you'd like, but not all of them are paid.”

“I can't afford to stay in the city if the internship isn't paid,” Grantaire says.

“Professor Klein has said that you'll take home the profits from any pieces you show for him that sell.”

“I'm not interested.”

“It's not always about interest. Sometimes it's about being limited to one option and choosing it because there isn't anything else.”

Grantaire stares at Valjean, who glares right back at him.

“I'm worried about you, Grantaire, but if you won't talk to me, there's not much else I can do. I'll email you the opportunities and forward you Professor Klein's information and your painting professor's letter. I suggest you apologize to both of them.”

Apologize. Grantaire's mouth twists. If only things were that simple.

*

“The thing about that painting is that God doesn't touch Adam,” Grantaire is saying, several hours and more drinks later. “That's the whole _point_. The second those fingers make contact, the world explodes.”

“That's interesting,” the pretty boy at the bar says. He has plump lips and hair the color of orange highlighter. “If creation is God reaching, then armageddon is God's touch.”

“If creation is desire, armageddon is its satisfaction,” Grantaire says. “It's that Catholic fear of God, present even in the art.”

“What did those Catholics have to believe about God, if they convinced themselves that He made us in His image?” the boy says.

“What did they have to believe about us?” Grantaire retorts.

He curls his fingers around the stem of his glass. The boy's fingers reach out, brush Grantaire's. Neither of them explodes, but then, Grantaire supposes, neither of them is God. Another face swims to the front of Grantaire's mind, but—Grantaire reminds himself—that face isn't God's either.

The boy smiles. He is all teeth, shiny and white, reminding Grantaire of everything he's trying to forget.

“Finish your drink,” Grantaire says softly. 

The boy does.

*

School starts up again, this time with a light at the end of the tunnel.

That the tunnel leads to finals week, that the light is the light of hellfire, is irrelevant.

Spring break is over, and that means five more weeks of the semester, read week, and then final exams.

And then summer.

Grantaire does not want to think about summer, of the unrelenting Jersey heat, of what he'll do if he doesn't find an internship soon. But at least it'll be better than this.

*

On Monday, Grantaire skips Sculpture, not wanting to see Jehan.

But he thinks of Valjean, Valjean's worry, Valjean's concern, and it feels uncomfortably familiar, so Grantaire doesn't sit in his room drinking all day. Instead, he goes to Watercolor, shows his professor some of the underwater stuff he's done over break. 

“Not bad,” the professor says. “Try varying your subjects, though, if you're going to do a series.”

And so Grantaire spends the afternoon surreptitiously sipping from his flask when his professor's back is turned, painting the members of the ABC.

These look different from the self-portraits. His friends aren't drowning: they're living, breathing underwater somehow. He starts with Courfeyrac, wrapping him in pale light. In the next painting, Jehan's face peeks out from behind the seaweed. Then Eponine, surrounded by deep sea fish on the ocean floor. 

“These are much better,” his professor says. “You can stay here and keep working on them if you want. There isn't another class in here today.”

Grantaire does stay. The lighting in here is so much nicer than the lighting in his studio, and anyway his studio space is disgusting right now, littered with empty bottles and dirty water, right next door to Jehan's.

He stays. He paints. He breathes. At one point, he even takes a break to write a hasty apology to his painting professor, whose response ( _Sorry to hear you were feeling ill. Let's meet for coffee & a chat about your art soon._) sends a thrill up Grantaire's spine.

It will, he decides, be okay.

*

On Tuesday, Grantaire emails Professor Reed: _I'm still feeling unwell. Sorry—I can pick up assignments to grade tonight and drop them off in the morning._

Reed emails him back, _Sorry to hear that, Grantaire. Feel better._

And that is Art History and Enjolras avoided.

*

He supposes it makes sense that he skips the ABC meeting.

It feels wrong somehow, not going, and Grantaire finds himself unable to stop pacing back and forth in his room. He knows he has no right to, but he's still so fucking _worried_ about them all—what's the punishment for breaking and entering? Expulsion at best, jail time at worst, probably—and even if they only get suspended, that's the ABC disbanded, and if _that_ happens then who's going to lead protests and rally all the progressive student groups together? No one else has ever done that. And they need to rally together, to believe that their causes are all, at their cores, the same cause, because if they don't then they're just groups battling discretely for small changes that will probably ignored, and—

Grantaire suddenly can't take it anymore. He goes to the gym.

*

When Grantaire gets back from the gym—running, in this case, somehow being much more satisfying than drinking; he's not sure he's ever been this consistently hungover in his life—Eponine is sitting outside of his dorm room, a textbook open in her lap.

“Uh,” Grantaire says. “Hi.”

“You've been ignoring my texts.”

“Don't feel special. I've been ignoring everyone's texts.”

He unlocks his door and enters his room. Eponine follows him.

“Are you going to explain yourself?”

“Not much to explain.”

“Really? You wrote a takedown of the ABC, and there's _not much to explain_?”

“I was tired of getting treated like dirt there. I was so sick of being the least valuable member. I just wanted to be done.”

“So why not just leave? Why'd you have to slander the organization that made you half your friends?”

“I didn't slander it. Everything I said was true.”

“The ABC is a club full of good people trying to do good things. It wouldn't have killed you to acknowledge that, at least.”

“Eponine, I don't want to fight about this. I was pissed, okay?”

“You were _drunk_ ,” Eponine says. “You were drunk, and you fucked up. The ABC worked in secret. Most people thought of it as a kind of over-zealous gay straight alliance. We played on that underestimation to get shit done, to get things approved. No one knew it was us that leaked the information last year. We worked in secret to protect our members and to maintain the element of surprise. You've destroyed that.”

“Wasn't Enjolras already going to do that by breaking into the president's house? Seems pretty conspicuous.”

“No. That was going to be a scattered effort. It would look like the rally led to an unruly riot. The white kids in the front to minimize damages. You know Enjolras. It's not in the name of the ABC. It's in the name of the people.”

“Isn't it a little arrogant to do things in the name of the people?”

“Yeah, we all know you think that,” Eponine says. “We read your fucking article.”

“Are you still going to do it?”

“What do you think?”

“So you're all ignoring me. _Still_.”

“We can make our own choices, Grantaire.” 

Eponine's voice is almost gentle.

“So it had no effect, then,” Grantaire says. “No reason for you to yell at me. Everything's going ahead as planned, less one drunk useless artist.”

“His _father_ saw it, Grantaire,” Eponine says.

“What?”

“Enjolras is getting cut off if his dad catches so much as a whiff of him working with the ABC in the future,” Eponine says. “What's worse, he's actually told public safety to do with Enjolras what they want. That means Enjolras gets no protection from his dad's name or company, and no money for a lawyer if he actually gets caught.”

“What?” Grantaire says. “So he's not going through with it?”

“Of course he is,” Eponine says.

“You're all getting arrested,” Grantaire says. “And it won't just be suspensions. You have a criminal record, Eponine, and so does your dad, and you have your brother to think about. What's he going to do if you're in _jail_?”

Eponine's lips form a thin, hard line.

“When I needed insurance to cover my hormones, this school _refused_ ,” she says. “I had to deal with red tape for months and months before I could get them. And you know who was sitting at the library with me, reading through the insurance's rules and regulations and New York State laws? It was Combeferre and Enjolras.”

“Eponine—”

“You don't know what it's like,” Eponine says, “to have to hope and pray for loopholes, or for the cleverness of strangers, or for something to finally show up—just so you can get the medication you _need_.”

“I know,” Grantaire says.

“If I lose my status as an RA, Gavroche won't have a place to live,” Eponine says. “That's why I came to see you.”

“And here I thought you just missed me.”

“You fucked up so big that it's going to be weeks before I miss you.”

“Is this you asking me for a favor?”

“This is me asking you to be a good guy. For Gavroche. You just have to make sure he goes to school, gets fed. Figure something out if my parents come looking.”

Grantaire looks at her. Lit up like this, in the ugly fluorescent lighting of his dorm room, Eponine looks tired and raw. The lines around her mouth are more pronounced than ever before, and the black nail polish on her fingernails has almost chipped completely off.

“Of course,” Grantaire says. “Yeah. Of course.”

The weight seems to drop off Eponine's shoulders all at once, and immediately she looks ten years younger, twenty-two instead of over thirty. Grantaire thinks it shouldn't hurt him so much that she didn't think he'd do it.

 _Maybe it's not fucking all about you_ , interjects a sharper voice in his head. Grantaire stares at Eponine, who still looks much lighter than she had earlier.

“Thank you,” she says. 

She stands to leave. 

“By the way, Grantaire,” she says. “Can you—I don't know—eat something?”

“What?”

“You've lost like twenty pounds in the last week,” she says. “You look like shit.”

“So do you,” Grantaire says.

Eponine doesn't dignify that with a response. She leaves without saying goodbye.

*

Time passes.

Grantaire is alone.

*

The worst of it all is how much Grantaire _misses_ everyone. He keeps catching sight of them walking across campus, and it makes him ache every single time. He avoids the classes they have in common, avoids the dining halls, avoids the libraries, and avoids, especially, his building's lounge.

But he misses them. He misses the bonds that develop when you see people constantly, all the time, every day, every class, that odd combination of philia and eros that he sometimes fears is giving way to agape, or maybe the other way around. The inside of his mouth tastes like stale alcohol all the time, like old whiskey and something metallic, and he's sick of it. He misses studying at Joly and Bossuet's, Musichetta singing softly in the background while Feuilly raps his knuckles against the table in time to the beat. He misses talking art with Jehan. He misses smoking with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, listening to the music Combeferre recommends. He misses showing up to dance practice and heckling Cosette, especially now that it's almost time for him to return to dance. He misses just hanging out with Eponine.

But most of all—and it doesn't make any sense, he _knows_ it doesn't, he's closer friends with Joly and Bossuet and Eponine and Cosette and Jehan and probably even Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Musichetta—most of all, Grantaire misses Enjolras.

There's nothing deeper than that about it. This all would have been so much easier if Enjolras had never showed up to dance that day, thanking Grantaire for his stupid painting. Probably, Grantaire wouldn't have forgotten that Enjolras doesn't actually care for him. Probably, Grantaire wouldn't have been so hurt when Enjolras saw him for what he is.

Because Grantaire gets it now, gets why everyone buys everything that comes out of Enjolras's mouth. Enjolras makes you think everything is significant. He disabuses you of the notion that your actions are useless. He does away with cynicism. He makes everything important, makes each rally and each protest seem life or death instead of just about school rules. And worse than that, Enjolras makes you believe you're better than you are, and you sacrifice yourself for his cause because that's what good people do. Grantaire is not good people, and Enjolras might have known that but he tried to convince Grantaire otherwise anyway. 

And that's _nice_. Grantaire can't deny that, that Enjolras's attention made him feel—better, maybe, or at least made him feel _something_ , and—

And Grantaire misses him. It's not complicated. It doesn't require metaphors or figurative language: Grantaire misses Enjolras, and that's that.

*

Maybe, in the end, that's why he does it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my language in discussing Eponine is offensive or harmful, please please please let me know and I will do what I can to change it (or get rid of it).
> 
> Please leave a comment! They make my day <3
> 
> I recently discovered that you actually _can_ do footnotes on this website, but I haven't learned how, so we'll just have to use this method for a couple more chapters (only two more after this one!)
> 
> In case you aren't familiar with American history: the [Underground Railroad](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Underground_Railroad) was a route by which slaves fled from their masters and made way toward safer regions (parts of the northern United States, Canada, etc). One of the most influential Underground Railroad leaders was [Harriet Tubman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Tubman), herself an escaped slave with a fascinating story that you should definitely look into. 
> 
> [Tagg Romney](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tagg_Romney) is one of Mitt Romney's sons, and [Mitt Romney](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitt_Romney) was the Republican nominee for president in 2012 after being a surprisingly decent governor in Massachusetts (itself known for being one of those East Coast old money regions while also being known for being super blue blood liberal—it's an odd contradiction, but it's really a Northeast US thing). Mitt Romney is known for pretty much being the elite of the elite—a lot of people speculate that a major reason for his loss in 2012 was that he was just too rich for the average American to relate to. 
> 
> Oh, and Phillips Exeter is one of those absurdly expensive private high schools, probably roughly equivalent to something like Eton (it's in New Hampshire, which is coincidentally one of the places the Romneys summer) (it's where rich Bostonians go for vacation, basically).
> 
> Grantaire quotes _Frankenstein_ (the book) at Enjolras, and then quotes Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ (no, I don't think it's unrealistic that he can quote pretty much everything, why do you ask?) (in the canon R says something like "I'm dumb or I'd quote a bunch of shit at you," so) (also, I personally think it's hilarious that Enjolras mistook Frankenstein for Ovid, but this may be a case of me laughing at my own jokes). Enjolras's line, “be serious,” is from the original text of _Les Miserables_ and is one of the few canonical conversations between him and Grantaire (Grantaire's reply in the canon: “I am wild.” Kinda hot, tbh).
> 
> “The sovereign charm for all our woes” is from Euripides' _Bacchae_ and refers to wine—or, more generally, to alcohol.
> 
> Cosette is singing Passion Pit's “[Dancing on the Graves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7ymInPU1eA)” in Grantaire's dream.
> 
> The painting Grantaire talks about at the bar with that random is Michelangelo's [Creation of Adam](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Creation_of_Adam), and if I know anything about elite universities in the Northeast, it's that when you get drunk you talk about Catholic conceptions of apocalypse via over-discussed Renaissance frescos. That or the stock market. 
> 
> I hope this helps your hangovers (be they substance-, sleep-, or school-related) <3


	12. april; or, apollo and the artist

“Grantaire?”

The voice is sharp, but it's from Jehan, not Enjolras.

Jehan is Native American and therefore part of that tiny, precious demographic that the school worked so hard to cultivate—and, Enjolras must assume, safe.

That's why he's here, at the front lines, the first one sent out to ensure that everything is as it's supposed to be. It looks like no one else is at the university president's house yet. If anything, it's suspiciously quiet, only one lazy-looking public safety officer sitting in a booth half a block away.

Except that the door is ever-so-slightly ajar.

“Evening,” Grantaire says, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. He plays with the broken bit of metal on his sleeve. It's his war jacket, his armor, and it's just late enough in the day that it's necessary to keep him warm.

“I thought you weren't coming.”

The expression on Jehan's face is indecipherable. His hair gleams mint-green in the semi-darkness, and his lips are pressed together like he's trying not to say something more.

“And miss all the fun?” Grantaire says.

Jehan stares at him a moment longer, and then he throws his head back and laughs.

 

*

Jehan, as it turns out, is keeping lookout, and he sends Grantaire to where the rest of the ABC are camped out, across the street and tucked into a thicket of shrubs, half-crouched behind them like spies.

“Hi,” Grantaire says.

Everyone looks at him. It's mostly wordless, and then Courfeyrac says, “Get down, you don't want anyone to see you.”

Grantaire does, feeling stares on the back of his head—Bahorel, Eponine, Joly, even Combeferre—and presses his teeth together.

“What's going on?” he manages.

“Enjolras was supposed to be out or to have given us a signal fifteen minutes ago,” Combeferre says.

There's tension in his jaw, and he's clutching his phone like it's a lifeline as he stares up at the university president's mansion.

“He's still up there?” Grantaire says.

“Yeah.”

“I've had enough of this,” Eponine says. “I'm going to follow him.” She pulls her gloves back on. “I'll pull him out of the window if I have to. He needs to get out of there.”

“You've already been spotted near the door,” Combeferre says.

“You're already on the CCTV,” Musichetta says, showing Eponine her laptop. Which—that's pretty impressive, Grantaire has to admit. “You probably shouldn't make it any worse for yourself by actually going in.”

“You had lock picks,” Combeferre says. “You'll get arrested.”

Eponine clenches one gloved hand.

“I don't care,” she says.

“You should,” Combeferre says. “Who's going to take care of Gavroche?”

Eponine looks at Grantaire.

“I wouldn't let him starve or freeze or anything,” he says. “But he needs his sister. He needs you.”

“You've done your piece,” Combeferre says.

Eponine stares at him, her jaw working like she wants to say something, but then instead she sits down flat on the ground and draws her knees up toward her chest.

“I'll go in,” Courfeyrac says.

“You'll lose your internship at the State Department if you get caught,” Combeferre says, like it's obvious. “ _I'll_ go.”

“No, you won't,” Feuilly says. “The last thing we need is you getting arrested.”

“You're way more valuable out here,” Courfeyrac agrees. “My internship doesn't matter, _I'll_ do it—”

“No, I'll go,” Bahorel says. He's leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette, looking cool and calm and collected.

“You think Harvard Law is going to send you a lawyer if you get arrested?” Grantaire says, because what has to happen is becoming abundantly clear to him.

Everyone else has an internship, a grad school, a brother to worry about.

He has nothing.

“I'm doing it,” he says.

“Enjolras won't like that,” Combeferre says, but Courfeyrac frowns.

“I think that's a good idea,” he says.

“We're not going to get Grantaire arrested just because he—” Combeferre says, but then he seems to understand what Courfeyrac is referring to. “Hm. You have a point.”

“What's the point?” Grantaire says.

“He listens to you,” Courfeyrac says.

“He most definitely does not.”

“He reshaped the entire rally because of you. Twice.”

“What? Really?”

Combeferre nods, not looking up from Musichetta's laptop.

“He's on the second floor,” Combeferre says. “He's just—standing there. And he won't answer texts, either.”

“If you're going to do this, you need to do it now,” Eponine says.

“Which way should I go in?”

“Go in through the front. Go to the left of the public safety officer's booth. There's no camera there because he's supposed to be paying attention, but.” Eponine shrugs, a half-smile glinting against the darkness. “The door should still be unlocked.”

“Avoid the motion-sensing lights,” Courfeyrac says. “There's one on the top step of the porch and one on the welcome mat just inside. We've avoided them so far, which is why no one's suspicious yet. But if they see you trigger it, they'll know you're there and they'll stop playing Solitaire or whatever long enough to catch you.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, pulling his hood over his head as far as it'll go. “Right.”

“Be fast,” Combeferre says.

“Don't get caught,” Eponine says.

“Good luck,” Bahorel says, and smiles.

Grantaire sprints.

 

*

Grantaire is not a fast runner. He's been resisting running as a warm-up in boxing since he was learning how to box. He hates it less now, a lot less than when he was younger, but he's still no sprinter.

But he's in good shape, and he's been running more often lately, and that means that this time, when he takes off toward the president's house, he has good enough momentum that the public safety officer doesn't even notice him.

He skips the right step, runs right up to the front door, remembers that it's still unlocked, and crosses the threshold.

And steps on the welcome mat.

The lights flash on.

 

*

There is a set of stairs to his right and a closed door behind him. Grantaire can hear something outside and figures the nearby public safety officer is just checking to see what's going on, but if the officer opens the door, he's fucked. If the officer saw the door close, he's even more fucked.

Grantaire stops thinking about it, clambers up the stairs. The public safety officer opens the door.

“Hello?” he says, but he doesn't see Grantaire. “Show yourself!”

Grantaire hunches on the landing, obscured by the wall. There are the sounds of the officer stepping into the mansion, which Grantaire is sure he's not supposed to do, but he _left the fucking door unlocked_ , like an _idiot_ —but Enjolras did it too, but then Enjolras didn't trigger the motion lights—

The public safety officer steps around a few more times, and then the door closes.

Grantaire breathes. Maybe the public safety officers don't have access to the CCTV inside the house. Maybe they missed him and haven't seen Enjolras.

There's no time to think about it, not if the officer downstairs is going to do his job properly and bring back up. He stands up straight, moves into the main hallway. The walls are lined with rooms, one massive window at either end of the hall.

And there is Enjolras.

He is standing, frozen, staring out one of the windows.

“What's wrong?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras doesn't reply. He doesn't even look at him.

Has he lost his mind? His nerve?

“What are you doing?”

Enjolras doesn't turn. He's examining the walls in what looks like faint shock, as if he never thought they'd make it this far.

“Hurry up, Apollo,” Grantaire says. “Make a move.”

Enjolras turns to him abruptly.

“You were right,” he says, unexpectedly.

“What?” Grantaire says.

“You said this was 'monumentally fucking stupid,' and that you thought the ABC was a useless organization run by naïve rich kids,” Enjolras says. “And you were right.”

“No—Enjolras—”

“You said you didn't care about us. Any of us.”

“I do.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and then can't say anymore.

Enjolras stares at him, wide blue eyes betraying a surprising amount of hurt.

“Isn't it true? What you think is going to happen. It's true, right? You're right? Already public safety is rushing to the scene of the break-in—they'll be here any minute—you were right. I'm going to jail.”

“So am I.”

“Not if you leave now. You don't even care about this. Why are you here?”

Grantaire spreads his arms as if in surrender.

“You're stuck,” he says. “I can help you.”

“Why would you want to help me?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Great perils bring to light the fraternity of strangers, do they not?”

“I don't have time for this,” Enjolras says. “You don't _care_.”

“I never pretended to believe in your cause, okay? But I know you can do it. If anyone can change the world, it's you.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Of course I do.”

“You don't believe in anything.”

“I believe in you.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras says. “This isn't about our relationship. Not everything's about you.”

“But _this_ is.”

“ _You said you didn't care!_ ”

It's almost a shout, comes out of an Enjolras who is completely rigid from head to toe, both fists clenched at his sides.

He doesn't know which room is the president's, Grantaire guesses. Enjolras definitely looked at blueprints and floor plans because he's _Enjolras_ and he doesn't do things by halves, but now he's not sure. He's distracted.

“April fool's?” Grantaire tries.

Something in Enjolras's face changes, a startling shift that helps ground Grantaire.

“You can orient yourself using the windows,” Grantaire says. “That one's west.”

Enjolras's jaw is set, but at this, it shifts, his lips parting slightly. Grantaire tries not to focus on them.

“That one's his bedroom,” Enjolras says, pointing. “Second from the left.”

He turns toward it but otherwise doesn't move.

“Together?” Grantaire suggests.

Enjolras turns back, gives him a long, discerning look.

And then he smiles.

“Together,” he agrees.

 

*

The president's bedroom is large, but not particularly ostentatious given his character. Against one wall is a massive bed done up in school colors. The room also features a tall wardrobe, two nightstands, and a well-loved leather recliner, but other than the doors leading to the president's balcony, the rest of it is fairly plain.

Grantaire realizes it at the same time that Enjolras does. It should've been clear earlier, when the guard downstairs came into the house.

“He's not here,” Enjolras says, pressing a hand to the leather of the recliner as if to steady himself.

“Maybe he's in his study.”

“No. He's not here and his wife isn't here and his bed is still made and no one's sat in the recliner in hours.” Enjolras lifts his hand and passes it over his face. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled. “He's at the office or out for a meal or something. He's not here. He hasn't come home yet.”

“Do you want to wait?”

But already, they can hear the sounds of back up successfully called, of public safety walking around downstairs.

They're going to be caught, and they're going to be arrested.

The idea of this, of being arrested with Enjolras, doesn't terrify Grantaire as much as it should. Courfeyrac will post bail or something. They'll figure out lawyers after. Maybe Bahorel and Bossuet and Combeferre can be their lawyers. Maybe the president won't even press charges.

“We need to get out of here,” Enjolras says.

He eyes the balcony, but they're two mansion-stories off the ground and Enjolras is no athlete. They would almost certainly break bones.

But public safety are coming up the stairs. They're running out of options.

“There are cameras everywhere in here,” Grantaire says. “They'll have seen us. You have a distinctive face and a distinctive name.”

“And you're a star athlete whose art is gaining him recognition in Europe and in New York,” Enjolras says. “He'll know your face, too.”

He pauses.

“But there are no cameras in the bedroom,” he says.

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “And on the balcony?”

“The nearest one is trained just beneath the balcony, not directly at it.”

“That's interesting,” Grantaire says. “Very interesting.”

“I agree,” he says, yanking Grantaire's hood off his head in a motion so surprising it leaves Grantaire reeling.

Public safety enters, three officers twice Enjolras's size. They don't look mean, exactly, just tired and overworked and a little annoyed that they're dealing with this.

“Look, guys,” one of them says. “We can get this all sorted out if you just leave. No one has to know it happened.”

“Everyone wants to see the president's house,” another says. “You did. Go home. Tell your frat bros you got in.”

“Chances that you'll get fired for this?” Enjolras says. “If he finds out?”

“High,” the first officer admits.

For a second, Grantaire thinks Enjolras is going to acquiesce, to sacrifice his cause for these three men's jobs.

But Enjolras, for all his talk about not being able to quantify human life, has apparently taken a somewhat utilitarian approach to this.

He starts backing toward the balcony.

“I just want a peek,” he says. “One peek.”

“Kid—” says the public safety officer who hasn't spoken yet, but Enjolras ignores him, and Grantaire follows him out.

The public safety officers do, too, close on their tails.

Enjolras leans casually against the barrier of the balcony, which is three feet high and very easily scalable, Grantaire thinks.

“There's nowhere else to go,” the first officer says. “Just leave. You'll get suspended for a couple days. Your deans will be notified that you broke a rule. Trespassing is a misdemeanor, not a felony, and you kids don't look like you want to steal anything. President doesn't need to know.”

_Trespassing is a misdemeanor, not a felony._

The thought exhilarates Grantaire. Enjolras has money. Enjolras will get out of this.

“What about the person on camera picking the lock?” Enjolras says.

The public safety officer hesitates. Grantaire's exhilaration is immediately snuffed out.

“That's what I thought,” Enjolras says.

He looks at Grantaire, and Grantaire looks back at him.

“Together?” Enjolras says, climbing up on the barrier in a surprisingly lithe motion.

Grantaire grins, jumps up beside him, and takes Enjolras by the hand. As always, Enjolras's touch is electric. Somehow, it feels empowering instead of debilitating this time.

“What are you—” one of the officers says, but he must realize because then he groans loudly.

“Together,” Grantaire says.

They fall backwards in sync.

 

*

When Grantaire wakes up, he is alone somewhere sterile and white.

Gradually, he comes aware of the sharp pain in his ribs, of the dulled senses and short breath that he can only assume are from some cocktail of drugs, of the IV hanging out of his left arm.

Things start to come back to him: a shout that must be Enjolras's, an ambulance, two ambulances. Poking. The sharp, grounding pain of a needle inserted into the crook of his arm.

“You were very dehydrated, you know,” says his nurse, a young woman whom he's sure he recognizes from one of Bossuet's many visits here. “I didn't think a nasty fall and a rib-break would make a person dehydrated.”

“No,” Grantaire agrees. “That was a two-week-long bender.”

“I can have a hospital psychologist come in to talk to you about it, if you'd like,” the nurse says, adjusting Grantaire's bedding.

“I wouldn't like,” Grantaire says. “I have a psychiatrist. I'll go and see her.”

“Okay,” the nurse says.

She looks at Grantaire.

“What happened?” she says carefully, and Grantaire realizes that she's already heard Enjolras's account, or heard of it, and his has to match.

He searches for his phone with both hands, noting that his left forearm is bandaged as well—but the phone is on a chair on top of a pile of his ruined clothes. He can't reach it.

“I don't remember,” he says.

“The police are going to question you,” the nurse says.

She stares at Grantaire for a long moment.

“The ABC,” she says. “That's the club the other boy is in, right?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says.

“I read his interview in the school paper,” she says.

There's another brief pause, and then she hands him his phone.

“You should try to sleep more,” she says. “The police will be here in the morning.”

She checks his IV, and then she leaves.

 

*

Grantaire wakes with the very strange sensation of being watched.

He opens his eyes, and sees that he is.

Enjolras is in a wheelchair, one leg elevated before him, and Grantaire's mouth goes dry.

“Fuck,” he says. “I knew we shouldn't have fallen backward—but it seemed like the only way—I couldn't see how we'd be able to pass it off as being pushed the other way—”

“Stop it,” Enjolras says. “It's only my leg. Just a little break. I'm fine.”

He stares at Grantaire with round eyes.

“What happened to you?”

“Three ribs broken, bruised lung,” Grantaire says. “Could be worse.”

“Bruised _lung_?” Enjolras says. “Jesus, Grantaire, can you _breathe_?”

“Sort of,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras's mouth drops open.

“You were right,” he says. “This was insane. We only got hurt, and the president didn't even see.”

“Have you talked to the police yet?”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“They tried to come into my room, but my mother stopped them.”

“Your mother?”

“My parents were both here,” Enjolras says stiffly. “You can imagine I got a good talking-to. 'Why are the police involved?' 'What have you done?' 'You bring shame the Enjolras name and I can't see you ever being the right sort to take over.' That kind of thing.”

“Do you _want_ to take over?”

“God, no,” Enjolras says. “The only way I'd be interested is if I could turn it into some kind of environmental or medical research company, and my father's board would never go for that.”

“Too much money in weapons manufacturing?”

“ _Way_ too much,” Enjolras says.

There's a knock at the door, too quiet and deliberate to be the police.

“Friends, maybe?” Grantaire says hopefully.

“I doubt it,” Enjolras says. “No one's allowed in without your approval except family. Gavroche talked to your parents, by the way. They'll be here in a couple of hours.”

“What about Eponine?”

“Combeferre says she was arrested.”

“Fuck.”

“That's why we need to talk to the police.”

There's another knock, louder this time.

“Come in,” Grantaire says, hoping it's Eponine anyway.

Obviously, though, it isn't Eponine. It isn't the cops, either.

It takes a moment for Grantaire to recognize him from this close up, but when he does, his heart almost stops. His breathing is certainly belabored.

It's the president.

“Good morning,” he says. “I trust you both slept well.”

“You're not supposed to be here,” Grantaire says. “Family only.”

“You'll find that when you're a particularly large donor to a certain institution, they prefer to keep you happy.”

He sits in the chair opposite Grantaire's bed and stares at him.

“Mr. Enjolras,” the president says. “You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?”

Enjolras is very still, which might read as calm to someone who doesn't know him well.

“I came to discuss what transpired at my home last night.”

“Really?” Grantaire says. “I thought you were here to ensure that two of your most promising students hadn't sustained life-threatening injuries courtesy of university public safety.”

The president regards him.

“Professor Klein spoke very highly of you on my recent trip to our Paris satellite,” he says. “He wondered why you refused to produce art for his show. He seemed to take it as an insult.”

“I meant it as one,” Grantaire says.

“You shouldn't insult those who would help you,” the president says. “That's the problem with art students. They don't go to any networking events. They never _learn_.”

Enjolras still has not spoken, but at this, he looks up.

“Why are you here?” he says. “Are you pressing charges?”

The president leans back in his chair.

“No,” he says. “I have paperwork for you to sign, but I will not press charges.”

“What kind of paperwork?”

“It says that you will not sue the school for damages, emotional or physical. Your father will not pull his donation. Mr. Grantaire will show in Professor Klein's gallery with the name of the university beneath his own.”

“What about the public safety officers who pushed us?”

“They have already been discharged,” the president says.

“No,” Enjolras says. “Give them their jobs back.”

Something in the president's face flickers.

“This is not a negotiation,” he says.

“I think it is,” Enjolras says. “I think you're terrified of the press this will get. Students so dissatisfied with the current administration, so _ignored_ by it, that they break into the president's house for the chance to speak to him? That they sacrifice their futures for five minutes of his time? And then they're pushed off his balcony by his security? That won't make for a very good news story, and you're already buried in bad press.”

“You think you're a good businessman just because your father sells weapons to U.S. enemies?” the president says.

“This isn't business,” Enjolras says. “This is politics.”

Grantaire feels a sudden thrill.

Enjolras shifts in his wheelchair. Grantaire gets the idea that he wants to cross his legs.

“Eponine Thenardier goes free, with guaranteed full tuition for her extra year. Grantaire doesn't show in Paris if he doesn't want to, but he does reconsider Professor Klein's offer. The public safety officers retain their jobs. And you should know, Professor, that my signing this doesn't mean my father will do anything.”

“That's why your father has already signed it,” the president says.

“Rewrite it,” Enjolras says.

The president stares at him.

“It was you,” he says. “None of the other progressive organizations have gone against the administration like this. It was you, last year, stealing those documents.”

“It's not stealing if they should be public domain anyway.”

“That isn't what the law says.”

“Look,” Enjolras says. “I'm prepared to sue the school for allowing its public safety officers to push me off a balcony late at night and then the hospital, for allowing you in to harass myself and Grantaire while we're still recovering. Did you know Grantaire could have died? His lung is bruised. That means he was lucky not to have it punctured, which means he was lucky not to die, because it took emergency vehicles twenty minutes to get around public safety officers and onto your grounds. I don't care how much it costs or how long it takes. I have the funds to pay for lawyers and waste your time and drag your name through the mud. What I'm asking for is not much, compared to that.”

The president doesn't answer.

And then Grantaire remembers: _Trespassing is a misdemeanor, not a felony._

“Donations will drop,” Grantaire says. “Applications will drop—who wants to go to the school that almost kills its students? Who wants to go somewhere with the knowledge that their president will ignore them so completely that they'll be that desperate for his ear? And neither I nor Enjolras particularly need degrees.”

Enjolras looks at him sharply.

“We don't have to leave,” Grantaire continues. “We finish the semester and next year. We can continue to protest your unfair policies. You can agree to listen to us on some regular schedule. Otherwise, we leave and you get sued. I'm an artist: other professors have loved my work. They'd happily promote it. And Enjolras is the heir to _Enjolras Industries_ , not to mention a small fortune that probably came over from England with the Mayflower.”

Beside him, Enjolras relaxes, leans back in his chair, and Grantaire realizes that Enjolras didn't think of this, of forcing the president to listen to them. In his anger, he forgot that the president doesn't actually have the upper hand here.

“We trespassed,” Enjolras says. “Illegal, but it's a fine, not jail time. We had no burglar's tools. We had no weapons.”

Eponine was the one with the tools. That's burglary, punishable by fines and up to fifteen years—or is it twenty-five? Grantaire looked it up, but he can't remember. First degree or second? Which is worse again?

But the president isn't thinking about Eponine. He's eying Grantaire, who does his best to glare right back. It isn't difficult.

“Meetings twice a month with the heads of progressive organizations. I don't show for Professor Klein.”

“Unless you want to,” Enjolras says.

“Unless I want to,” Grantaire amends. “Eponine is released and not charged with anything. She gets her full tuition covered next year.” He didn't know that Eponine's signed up for an extra year, but he gets it. There was that year, that whole year, when she didn't have a place to live. That semester she dropped classes to pick up hours at work to clothe Gavroche, to pay for his after school program. He ignores the sick feeling of guilt bubbling in his stomach. “The public safety officers get their jobs back. We don't get charged with anything.”

The president stares at him.

“You can send the new paperwork here,” Enjolras says. “I'll be here for a while.”

That makes both Grantaire and the president turn to look at him.

Enjolras looks only at Grantaire.

“That is,” he says, “if you don't mind.”

Grantaire shakes his head.

The president looks very unhappy.

“Cheer up,” Grantaire says. “It's a good deal. This doesn't get on the news the way it would if you pressed charges against Eponine or fired three public safety officers at once. People wonder what happened at your house and you tell them the dog dialed 911 or something. It goes away. It disappears. This is good for you, too.”

“You,” the president says. “You would be good at business.”

“I do like drinking,” Grantaire says.

“I will send a secretary by with the new papers this afternoon.”

“My lawyer will be ready,” Enjolras says smoothly.

The president stares at them both for a long moment, but then he smiles. He looks almost proud.

“I hope you remember the kindness the school has shown you when you are successful in your respective fields,” he says.

“Ugh,” Grantaire says. “Leave or I'll tell the nurse you tried to suffocate me. I have a bruised lung, I'd die immediately.”

The president actually laughs at that. He walks out, leaving a distinctly unsettled air in the room.

“That was too easy,” Grantaire says. “Wasn't it?”

“No,” Enjolras says, whirling his chair around to look at Grantaire. “The president has a history of honesty. He's a lawyer, and he twists his words, but he's an educator too. He has a JD but a PhD in ethics. He doesn't lie. Not when he knows he's lost. But I think he didn't expect us to argue, and he didn't think we'd know that we did isn't actually a felony.”

“Lucky that guard told us, huh?”

Enjolras laughs. “And Combeferre's email.”

“His what?”

“Didn't you check your phone? He sent us an email telling us the exact laws about this all.”

“And the president wouldn't have expected that. A school full of overachievers, and he thought we wouldn't have done our research.”

“He doesn't know us,” Enjolras says. “He's a researcher, but he didn't research us.”

He leans to his side, resting his head on Grantaire's bed.

“I think you were right. This isn't that bad, not for him. He didn't win, but he didn't actually lose much.”

Enjolras closes his eyes.

“I didn't sleep much last night,” he admits. “I was worried about this meeting. And they said Ativan would interfere with my pain medication.”

His face is very close to Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire has the urge to reach out and brush some of the hair out of it.

He moves his hand instead.

Enjolras only very rarely shows weakness like this, Grantaire knows, but they've both had an exhausting twelve hours.

“They wouldn't let me see you,” Enjolras says. “I wanted to come immediately.”

“I was sleeping.”

“I figured, but I still wanted to come.”

“How did you convince them?”

“I argued.”

Grantaire laughs. “Of course.”

“I don't think I won the argument. I think they were just sick of hearing it.”

His eyes are still closed. It's the most relaxed Grantaire has ever seen him. It's as if all the animosity, all the distaste, has melted out of him, leaving him pliant and soft and tired.

“Still counts, though,” Enjolras says.

His voice sounds sleepy, and that, Grantaire realizes, is a wonderful idea.

 

*

When Grantaire next wakes up, Enjolras is still there, though he's shifted so that his head is resting on his arm. It doesn't look particularly comfortable, but Enjolras is very still, and Grantaire's hand has moved back to its original position, so close to Enjolras's head that Grantaire can almost feel his hair.

Grantaire looks through his phone, which is packed with texts from everyone—his family, his friends, Gavroche, Eponine. There is one photograph snapped from what must have been Jehan's vantage point, posted in the Facebook group. It features Grantaire and Enjolras, falling from the balcony hand-in-hand. There is the email from Combeferre, which has a somewhat sensible subject: _info re: breaking & entering laws in ny state_. There are more emails, from professors and classmates, from the boxing team, from the dance team, all of whom know he's in the hospital but not why.

There will be time to deal with them later, Grantaire thinks, and settles deeper into his pillows.

“Hi,” Enjolras says.

He has sat up and turned to face Grantaire. His hair is rumpled from sleep, and his eyes are heavy-lidded.

“Hi,” Grantaire says.

“Hungry?” Enjolras says. “I can call a nurse.”

“A little,” Grantaire says.

But before Enjolras can do anything, the door bursts open once again.

This time, it's his parents and a very pale Gavroche, all coming in at once, carrying bags of food and looking very concerned.

Enjolras stiffens.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire's mother asks in Arabic, kissing Grantaire's cheek and then tugging his blanket away to see his injuries.

“What happened?” Grantaire's father asks, also in Arabic.

They both notice Enjolras at once.

“This is Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“Oh,” Grantaire's mother says. “Hello, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shakes her hand, and then Grantaire's father's, still looking stiff and awkward.

“You were with him when he fell?” Grantaire's father asks, switching to English.

“You fell too?” Grantaire's mother says.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and then, very quickly: “You should know that Grantaire was working toward an essential cause, a vital one, and he was injured in the process, but he's very brave.”

“We know he's brave,” Grantaire's mother says. “You should have seen him when he was younger—rescuing cats from trees, fighting bullies.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” Enjolras says, smiling. Grantaire can see the exact second that his parents are charmed. Really, Enjolras is dangerous.

“Please stop,” Grantaire says. “This is my nightmare.”

Behind Grantaire's parents, the deathly-pale Gavroche snickers.

“We'll let you get some rest,” Grantaire's father says. “Enjoy your lunch. Gavroche is staying with us for the night, so we'll be back to pick him up.”

Grantaire's parents leave.

“How's Eponine?” Grantaire asks Gavroche, who hasn't spoken.

Gavroche plays with the bag of food in his hand.

“She's in jail,” he says.

“Still?”

Gavroche shrugs. “Looked okay when I saw her. I got out of school for the day. She wasn't happy about that. Combeferre said they were working on getting her out.”

“He's looking over the paperwork at the president's office right now,” Enjolras says. “He says my dad's lawyer says it's fine, but I don't trust him.”

“So it's all going to be okay,” Grantaire says. “Are you okay, Gav?”

Gavroche nods.

“Are _you_ okay?” he says, and Grantaire understands.

“I'm _fine_ Gavroche, look,” he says, pulling open his gown to show Gavroche the injuries. “I have two broken ribs and a bruised lung. It'll hurt for a little, and then I'll get better. I don't even need a cast or anything.”

“Looks pretty cool,” Gavroche says, indicating the bruising blooming above Grantaire's tape, staining the skin beneath his heartline tattoo a deep blue-purple.

“I know,” Grantaire says. “My arm got sliced up, too. But it wasn't too deep.”

“The scar'll be cool,” Gavroche says. “It'll go with the flowers.”

“I think so, too,” Enjolras says, smiling.

“Are you going to be in a wheelchair forever?”

“No. Only until I leave the hospital. Then I'm on crutches.”

“That's good,” Gavroche says, and then actually blushes. “So you're both … going to be okay?”

Grantaire nods.

This seems to satisfy Gavroche, because he changes the subject almost immediately.

“Eponine says _I_ can get a tattoo when I turn eighteen,” Gavroche says.

“You can,” Grantaire says. “Won't even need her permission.”

“Will you draw me something?”

“Of course,” Grantaire says. “Whatever you want.”

Gavroche looks thoughtful.

“A rocket,” he says. “A rocket and Wonder Woman.”

Enjolras laughs aloud, a sound that makes something warm rush into Grantaire's stomach that is entirely separate from the pain medication in his IV.

“Thanks for the food, Gavroche,” Grantaire says.

Gavroche nods.

“I'm going to see my sister,” he says. “I'll meet your parents back here.”

“Don't tell them where you were,” Grantaire says.

“Duh,” Gavroche says.

“I love that kid,” Grantaire says when he's left.

“Me too,” Enjolras says, staring up at Grantaire. “Your parents seem nice.”

“They are.”

“You never talk about them.”

Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that. How does he explain what it is for your parents to wish for you so desperately to make something of yourself, to work their hardest so that you will have opportunities they did not—and know, with every sip of whiskey or moment spent studying art instead of economics or medicine, that you are failing them?

“What did they bring us?” he asks, instead of attempting to articulate any of this.

Enjolras stares at him for a long, quiet moment, and then he hands Grantaire a sandwich.

“I can just picture you, sprinting up trees,” he says. “Getting scratched up by angry cats.”

“Cats love me,” Grantaire says. “I've never met a single one that didn't immediately crawl in my lap and start purring.”

“I'm more of a dog person,” Enjolras says.

“No way. Really?”

Enjolras laughs.

“I know. It doesn't make any sense. I had one growing up, though, and I loved him.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got old. He died.” Enjolras shrugs, but he's not meeting Grantaire's eyes “I knew it was coming. I was ten, maybe? Eleven?”

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire says.

“It's okay.”

“I didn't mean about the dog.”

Enjolras looks at him. Full eye contact. There's a scratch on the side of his face, Grantaire sees.

“I know,” he says.

 

*

The television doesn't have very many channels, but Grantaire is fine with it being trained on CNN, and so is Enjolras.

“What does it say about us that we're, like, two hundred and fifty years removed from British colonization but we still only call one person the Queen?”

“It says we've been linguistically and culturally influenced in such a way that is probably impossible to wholly separate from our day-to-day lives,” Enjolras says. He sounds bored. “But we've got the upper hand now, in the grand scheme of imperial forces. At least against Grandma Great Britain.”

“ _Grandma Great Britain_ ,” Grantaire echoes.

It's an easy way to avoid the conversation they're really supposed to be having, where Enjolras in his wheelchair and Grantaire in his hospital bed and both of them in hospital gowns and socks talk about the fact that they've recently clasped hands and jumped off a balcony together after two weeks of barely exchanging a single word due to Grantaire's quote-unquote betrayal. He still has this odd conflict where he thinks he's right in thinking the ABC's goals are naïve but hopelessly wrong in outing them as such for the entire student body to see. But Enjolras hasn't mentioned it, and Grantaire doesn't either.

Instead, they watch TV.

“You use a lot of adverbs,” Grantaire says, to break the silence during a re-run of _Barefoot Contessa_ on his little hospital television.

“I had an English teacher who drilled descriptive language into us. Never broke the habit.”

“That sentence was pretty sparse.”

“I have my moments of linguistic fervor and my moments of linguistic asceticism.”

“Linguistic asceticism,” Grantaire says.

“Are you just going to keep repeating everything I say?”

“It's possible,” Grantaire admits.

When he turns again to look at Enjolras, there is the faintest trace of a smile on his lovely mouth.

All at once, Grantaire can't hold it in anymore.

“Why are you here?” Grantaire says. “You hate me.”

Enjolras looks surprised. “Of course I don't.”

“You do,” Grantaire says. “And when you tried to get to know me, you decided I wasn't worth it.”

“That isn't true.” Enjolras looks genuinely shocked. “If I hated you, why would I be here and not comfortably stretched out in my own hospital bed?”

“You got bored.”

“You're being ridiculous,” Enjolras says. “Stop trying to over-complicate this.”

“Over-complicate what?”

Enjolras sighs.

“I decided to get to know you because I couldn't understand you and I wanted to. I snapped at you at the ABC meeting because I was tired and frustrated, because we'd planned this rally perfectly and it was supposed to go off without a hitch, and because I was upset that you'd slept through so many meetings instead of providing us with your insight when we were still in the planning stages. I called you when I was in Jamaica because I missed you, and because Combeferre told me I should, and I thought he just meant because he understood that I missed you.”

Grantaire stares at him.

“Everyone kept telling me I was making this harder than it needed to be,” Enjolras says. “But now I get it. You were doing that, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just shut up for a second,” Enjolras says. “I have to figure something out.”

Grantaire thinks he means this on some intellectual sense, that he's just going to have to wait it out until Enjolras comes out with the Grand Unified Theory of How to Save the World or whatever, but it turns out to be a practical kind of figuring: Enjolras has planted both of his arms on Grantaire's bed and started to push, as if trying to lift himself onto it without the use of his legs.

“Wow,” Grantaire says. “You have horrible upper body strength.”

Then the thought of what Enjolras is trying to do—put himself on Grantaire's bed—strikes him, and suddenly Grantaire finds it difficult to breathe in a way that he thinks is entirely separate from his broken ribs.

“Give me a hand, then,” Enjolras says, looking up at Grantaire with earnest blue eyes.

He manages to push hard enough to get himself lifted off the chair a little bit, and then drags his one good leg onto the bed, and then Grantaire—still half-awed—grasps Enjolras around the waist and tugs.

They're lucky that their good sides line up well enough that both of them can do this. He supposes it makes sense—they fell together and both angled themselves poorly.

Grantaire finds that he hasn't taken a breath since Enjolras started this whole mess, and he exhales now, inhales. His injured lung burns.

Enjolras's side presses up against Grantaire's unbroken ribs. It's all electric heat, and Grantaire still finds that he wants to shudder.

“Is this okay?” Enjolras says.

“You could say that,” Grantaire says.

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “I'm going to do something—please don't freak out.”

He half-turns so that he's almost on his side, leaning heavily on his good leg, facing Grantaire.

“That was quite a feat, Apollo,” Grantaire says. His voice comes out unsteady. “Who knows what the great sun god will do for us next.”

“Apollo wasn't the sun god,” Enjolras says. Grantaire can feel his breath on his face. “Not exactly.”

“You don't know Ovid from Shelley, but you know that?”

“I did some research.”

Enjolras is impossibly close. Grantaire can count every fading freckle, every bafflingly dark eyelash.

“And?”

“And I don't think I'm anything like Apollo.”

Enjolras closes the gap between them at last, kissing Grantaire so briefly, so gently, that were it not for his continued presence millimeters away, Grantaire might think he imagined it.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire says.

“I think it's kind of obvious,” Enjolras says.

The hand that isn't supporting his weight comes up to cup Grantaire's neck. The gesture is almost sweet, so it's absurd that Grantaire's body reacts to it so violently. He feels himself flush from neck down.

“I didn't make this up,” Enjolras says. “Right? Everyone was right. You do like me. You do—want me.”

His voice shows the slightest doubt, possibly the first semblance of doubt that Grantaire's ever heard from it, and it makes Grantaire's heart twist.

“Yes,” Grantaire breathes. “Absolutely.”

Enjolras stays perfectly still, watching him from an altogether too-close position.

Grantaire kisses him this time, and he is not brief about it. Enjolras's lips are still parted when Grantaire presses his own against them, and Enjolras breathes into him once, and then kisses him back.

Enjolras is neither as shy nor as quick as he was before, and he kisses with a careful tongue, and Grantaire still thinks this is a side effect of the morphine. It can't be real. This can't be happening.

“It's happening,” Enjolras says, his hand moving to the back of Grantaire's head.

Surprisingly, he doesn't tangle his fingers there or pull or anything. There's a long moment where he just rakes his fingers through Grantaire's hair like he's combing it, soft strokes that make Grantaire's limbs feel like jelly.

“I love your hair,” Enjolras says, and now he wraps his fingers with it and tugs Grantaire's face back toward his own. “I told you that once.”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did. You told me you got voted best hair, and I told you they were right.”

Grantaire remembers that, vaguely, though he doesn't think that's how he interpreted it.

“Why did you decide to stop over-complicating this?” Grantaire asks, lips brushing against Enjolras's.

“Because I knew you wouldn't.”

“I wouldn't over-complicate?”

“You wouldn't stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being _you_ ,” Enjolras says.

There's a knock at the door.

Enjolras doesn't move away.

The knocker is persistent.

“God fucking dammit,” Enjolras says. “I didn't want anyone to interrupt us, but I think I mistimed this.”

“You over-plan everything,” Grantaire says, and then, “Come in!”

He doesn't look to see who has entered. He doesn't want to tear himself away from Enjolras, sitting eye-to-eye, forehead-to-forehead like this.

“So this is what you were doing instead of the cookie party,” Courfeyrac says.

“Good to see you're both up,” Combeferre says. “We have papers for you to sign.”

“ _You_ have them?”

“We just got them out of Enjolras's dad's lawyer's grimy hands,” Courfeyrac says. “Bossuet says he thinks they're all good. Bahorel read them about four times. He says they're legit as far as he can see.”

Enjolras breaks eye contact with Grantaire for the first time to look over at them, but his left hand drops to wrap around Grantaire's right one.

“Did you look at it?” he says.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says. “Read it backward and forward. I'm not a lawyer yet, but based on my limited expertise—”

“—and his years of mock trial,” Courfeyrac says.

“—it looks pretty good,” Combeferre says.

He tosses Enjolras his phone.

“They're basically waiting for us to sign to let Eponine out,” he says. “Number's already dialed whenever you're ready.”

“How is she?” Grantaire asks.

“She's all right,” Combeferre says. “You know Eponine.”

He's smiling when he says it, shy and private, and Grantaire wonders how up his own ass he's had to be to miss this. He half-thinks Combeferre is going to break out in wild praise of Eponine, and Grantaire can't really blame him.

“She keeps asking about you,” Combeferre adds. “Made me promise to tell her if one hair on your glorious ass was harmed.”

“Probably,” Grantaire admits. “I'm pretty sore.”

“Does that mean Enjolras is going to have to be careful later?” Courfeyrac says, smiling shamelessly even as Enjolras glares at him.

Grantaire supposes that's admirable. He's been on the receiving end of Enjolras's glares, and he definitely doesn't envy Courfeyrac's position. Maybe its effectiveness is somewhat diminished when Enjolras is holding Grantaire's hand so tightly.

“Give us the papers,” Enjolras says.

He skims the first few pages. It's not a particularly long document, but it's long enough that Enjolras gets fidgety after a few paragraphs and stops reading altogether after the beginning. He thrusts it into Grantaire's hands.

“I can't right now,” he says. “Tell me if anything sounds suspect.”

Grantaire scans it under Enjolras's watchful eye. Truthfully, most of the legalese is lost on him, but phrases stick out— _charges will not be pressed against Eponine Thenardier for the events of April 1, 2016_ —that he's pretty sure are good things.

“I don't think so,” Grantaire says.

“That's Combeferre, Bahorel, Bossuet, Grantaire, and me,” Courfeyrac says. “Not to mention an _actual lawyer_. Enjolras. It's done. We did it.”

Enjolras looks up at him.

“We did it,” he repeats hoarsely.

He takes the pen Combeferre offers him and signs the contract wordlessly, scratches the date out in his horrible handwriting. He has to let go of Grantaire's hand so that Grantaire can sign it too, but he grabs it again almost immediately when Grantaire has finished.

“It's done,” Courfeyrac says again. “Eponine's going to want to come right over to see you two.”

Grantaire thinks he's never wanted to see Eponine more in his entire life. Now that they know she's being released, he feels free to worry about her in a way he didn't before. She's spent nights in jail before, he knows, picked up little misdemeanors when she was younger, gotten caught with small amounts of weed. But that can't make it any easier for her.

“She's all right, Grantaire,” Combeferre says gently. “She'll be here soon.”

“We'll go drop these off,” Courfeyrac says. “When are you getting out?”

“Tomorrow morning for me,” Grantaire says.

“Me too,” Enjolras says.

“Brunch?” Combeferre says. “ABC's treat. Everyone'll be there.”

“Sounds fun,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre leave, and they're alone again.

Enjolras is pressed up against Grantaire's right side, but somehow Grantaire still feels almost shy. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything, content to hold hands with Enjolras in his hospital bed.

Enjolras lifts their hands, stares at them.

“I love your hands,” Enjolras says. “Your hands and your hair. I've fantasized about them.”

That shouldn't be so hot, Grantaire thinks.

“And your mouth,” Enjolras adds.

“I never really thought about your disembodied body parts like that,” Grantaire says, which is actually true. His fantasies about Enjolras were mostly vague, ideas and feelings and soft skin in his imagination instead of what they would actually do.

“You never touch me,” Enjolras says. “Sorry, that sounds like whining. I didn't mean it to.”

“It was just,” Grantaire says. “You hate me.”

“No I don't.”

“You certainly made it seem like you did.”

“April fool's,” Enjolras says, turning to look Grantaire in the eye. It's oddly unnerving.

“April fool's is over,” Grantaire says.

“I thought we'd gotten past it,” Enjolras says. “The you thinking I hate you thing. But you still never touch me.”

“I'm touching you now,” Grantaire says.

“Well, yeah,” Enjolras says. “But now it's different.”

He relaxes against the pillows a little.

“I didn't know what it was,” he says. “You're touchy-feely with everyone. Sometimes you look at me like I'm not real.”

“Sometimes you look at me like you wish I wasn't,” Grantaire says, looking away from Enjolras.

But Enjolras shakes his head.

“I didn't know what it was,” he says. “But I get it now.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Enjolras shifts on the bed, raises a hand to turn Grantaire's head back toward him.

“I like you,” he says. “I really like you. I haven't been trying to rope you in, or manipulate you, or treat you like an idiot, because I don't think you're an idiot. I don't think you're an affirmative action charity case. I think you're very smart, and very talented, and I really like you. You think I don't, but I've figured out why.”

“Why?” Grantaire says, not wanting to hear the answer.

“First, you don't think you're good enough to be here, at this school, so by transitive property you don't think you're good enough for its students. I want you to know that's bullshit, but I'm sure people have told you that and it's something you're trying to work through with your therapist and I'm not going to convince you right now.”

“I—” Grantaire says.

“Second,” Enjolras continues, “you think that I hate you. Which I suppose is my fault.”

He's quiet for a moment, but he's staring so intently at Grantaire that he might as well be talking.

“You think that I hate you because I'm incapable of expressing myself when I have conflicted emotions.”

That, at least, makes sense. Grantaire releases a long breath, but Enjolras shakes his head impatiently.

“My conflicted emotions were these: first, that I am attracted to you. That's still obvious. Second, that you don't care about the cause. That's not true, or if it is, it doesn't matter as much as I thought it did. Third, that _you_ don't like _me_ , or that you do but not in an—uh— _exclusive_ way.”

Grantaire laughs aloud.

“You're slut-shaming me again!”

“Sex-shaming,” Enjolras corrects. “But you're right. I didn't know if you liked me or if you just wanted to hook up. Especially after that first party, do you remember?”

“I definitely remember,” Grantaire says.

And he does remember. He remembers the feel of Enjolras against him, the look of Enjolras exhaling a lungful of smoke, that moment when he was so sure they were going to kiss—Marius, interrupting, ruining all of it.

“I guess I should've talked to you about it.”

“I guess.”

“I want to kiss you again,” Enjolras says. “This is ridiculous. All these months I've spent practically pining, and now we're barely even touching.”

“Pining?” Grantaire says.

“Pining,” Enjolras says.

“Me too,” Grantaire says, not realizing it's true until he says it. “Trying to distract myself—I was kind of a dick about it.”

“Me too,” Enjolras says.

He breaks eye contact with Grantaire to look at ahead at their joined hands.

“I thought,” he says. “I don't know. I thought you didn't care. I thought you were laughing at me—mocking me, the cause, everything.”

“I was,” Grantaire says. “Don't expect that to stop now, Apollo.”

Enjolras actually laughs.

“I know,” he says. “But it's not from a place of dislike or apathy. It's the opposite. It's that you care so deeply—I think I realized it when I read your op-ed again. It wasn't hatred or apathy or—or some desire for—like—destruction. It was the opposite, like it was coming from a place of deep care and deep hurt.”

Grantaire is glad that Enjolras isn't looking at him because he's pretty sure he's incapable of holding eye contact right now. Enjolras's hand lets go of Grantaire's hand, and for a moment Grantaire feels something akin to terror, but Enjolras isn't letting go altogether. Instead, his fingers slide down to wrap against Grantaire's wrist. His thumb makes soothing circles against the artery there. His head drops to Grantaire's shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras says. “I was an asshole. I didn't think it was a good idea to do this, but if it's going to be a distraction either way then it might as well be the kind of distraction that makes us happy. I feel really bad about it because I think it made you do something against your nature.”

“It wasn't against my nature,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras shakes his head.

“It was,” he says. “You seem to think it's exactly your nature, but you don't do that. Combeferre said that he only figured out who did it based on process of elimination—you were there and we fought, and then you skipped boxing practice and art history, and then no one'd seen you for ages. Eponine said it was unlike you. Joly and Bossuet swore you'd never do something like that. Except that you did, and it took me a while, but—but I reread last night, and they're right. It was anger and fear, not hatred or apathy, that made you write that, and it was anger at me and fear for your friends.”

“Stop blaming yourself for what I did,” Grantaire says. “I sat down at my computer and I made the choice to write that even though I knew it'd hurt you. _Because_ I knew it'd hurt you.”

Enjolras is silent for a long moment.

“This is a lot more talking than I expected,” he says.

“Then shut up,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras laughs again.

“I really like you,” he says. “Not just that. I didn't realize it until I was abroad, but—I don't just like you. I. I _need_ you.”

It sounds like a confession, the type of thing he'd say to a priest and then ask for some way to absolve himself of guilt.

Grantaire, who is no priest, looks up at the ceiling.

“Me too,” he says.

“Then,” Enjolras says, raising a hand to Grantaire's cheek and waiting until Grantaire moves to nuzzle it to continue, “ _do_ something about it.”

“I have cracked ribs and a bruised lung,” Grantaire says. “Not much I _can_ do.”

He leans in to kiss Enjolras, whose lips open automatically. Grantaire runs his own parted lips over Enjolras's, stopping for a moment when Enjolras's teeth scrape against Grantaire's lower lip. When he slides his lips back down, he presses a close-mouthed kiss to a spot just below Enjolras's lips that makes him shiver.

Grantaire needs more contact, he decides, and he raises the hand he's not leaning on to bring to the back of Enjolras's neck. His IV strains, but he ignores it. He wraps his hand there loosely, brushing his thumb against Enjolras's Adam's apple, and it makes Enjolras's wide eyes go momentarily out-of-focus.

It strikes Grantaire that this is impossible, that he can't believe he's actually doing this. There's something about Enjolras's kissing that's more technique than passion, but Grantaire gets the idea that he's holding back, probably because he doesn't want to hurt Grantaire. This is unreal. He feels like he 3D printed his own fantasies, which makes him feel creepy, which is a feeling he has to push aside because Enjolras is right _here_.

Grantaire pulls him closer, whines into his mouth. Enjolras, whose body is twisted awkwardly because of his leg, scrabbles at the space above Grantaire's bandage as if looking for a cloth to grip. But Grantaire's hospital gown is open, and Enjolras's fingers wrap only around the hair there.

“God,” Enjolras says, practically into Grantaire's mouth. “I know this is like, the least private place possible—but I really want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire says. “You can't say things like that. My lungs are already only semi-functional.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, flattening his palm against Grantaire's chest. He moves it to Grantaire's left, directly above Grantaire's broken ribs, and then up, to thumb Grantaire's collarbone. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Yes?” Grantaire says. “Is that even a question?”

“Just making sure,” Enjolras says. He sits up a little, looks at both their injuries. “What if I was face down, you were between my legs, and we elevated my broken one on some pillows?”

The image makes Grantaire's heart stop beating for a second.

“Uh,” he says. “Maybe? The IV would have to come out, though.”

Grantaire is like, sixty percent sure that the IV is the only thing preventing him from collapsing into a ball of pain (because Jesus Christ his lung is bruised, and if he takes any time to think about it he'll absolutely fucking lose it), but he doesn't want to bring it up, not when Enjolras is still so close.

But Enjolras seems to figure out himself, because he frowns down at their bodies and then up at Grantaire.

“Or I can just blow you,” he says.

His hand slides under the sheets, raking carefully down the front of Grantaire's body. Grantaire trembles despite himself.

“You're already half-hard,” Enjolras says.

“So are you.”

“I'm easy.”

“That has not been my experience with you.”

Enjolras laughs, a hysterical sound that feels out of place with his steady voice. That makes Grantaire laugh, too, which hurts his ribs badly enough that he stops, gasping.

“Fuck,” Enjolras says, pulling his hand back. “This is a bad idea.”

“It's not,” Grantaire says, though he can feel that the moment has passed. “It's not. We can still—it's not—I mean—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras, who still hasn't made any indication that he's going to get off the bed, says. “I don't mean forever. I just mean until you're well enough to _laugh_ , at least.”

“That sounds unfair to me. I feel like, as the hero who heroically threw himself off a balcony and then heroically fought the dragon—”

“—verbally fought the dragon—”

“—that I should at least get to enjoy the damsel in distress.”

“I'm not a damsel,” Enjolras says. “Though I certainly have been distressed.”

He tilts Grantaire's chin up with two fingers to kiss him. It's much lighter this time, just a press of Enjolras's lips against Grantaire's, but instead of separating he stays there, eyes closed.

Grantaire opens his mouth, sucks Enjolras's lower lip into it. If Enjolras is serious or if he's gone insane or whatever—tomorrow, Enjolras might not want him anymore. Tomorrow, Enjolras might think that Grantaire is the pathetic loser that Grantaire knows he is—

— _no, you're not_ , says a voice in his head, weak and quiet but there nonetheless—

—tomorrow, this might all be different.

But until then— _I need you_ , Enjolras said—until then, Grantaire is going to kiss Enjolras like tomorrow doesn't exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually going to post this early, but then my computer was like, hey, what if I randomly restarted without saving anything you had open? And I lost about a week's worth of edits. So if you spot any typos … please let me know.
> 
> Only one more chapter/epilogue/set of a few thousand words left!
> 
> Please leave a comment! They make my day <3
> 
> Also, I just threw up [a quick Eponine/Combeferre one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4999228) that was actually going to be a deleted scene from the night before the rally but ended up being in a completely different universe. (Would you want deleted scenes? I'd love to write a Courfeyrac/Jehan one ... let me know) Check it out if that's your thing!
> 
> “Great perils bring to light the fraternity of strangers” is from Hugo's text. So is “You don't believe in anything”/“I believe in you.”
> 
> Title is a reference to Cy Twombly's painting, “Apollo and the Artist,” which is a gorgeous piece of art:
> 
>  


	13. may; or, epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety attack described in this chapter. You'll know it when you see it. Peaks in the elevator. As always, feel free to ask for a summary of that section if you'd rather not read it.

(i who have died am alive again today,   
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth   
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay   
great happening illimitably earth)   


*

It is a wide open secret among the progressive student groups that the ABC successfully broke into the president's house.

Everything after that, though, is hearsay.

Some think they stole an art piece. Others insist that public safety beat them up in an act of military police brutality. One or two have some idea of the right story, that they got caught and had to make an exit any way possible. They are very much in the minority.

Everyone, however, is pleased when the president announces that, starting in the fall semester, he will host a meeting of the leaders of activist student groups twice a month.

*

Their welcome-home brunch with the ABC features a tired but pleased-looking Eponine, Enjolras and Bossuet trying to fit both sets of crutches and extra chairs for elevation purposes around their table, and a massive cake that reads _to Apollo and Dionysus: reconciled at last_.

“Your handiwork?” Grantaire asks Jehan.

Jehan, beaming, nods.

Everyone asks every question they didn't get a chance to ask at the hospital, and several people—Bossuet and Joly among them, but also Feuilly and even Marius—start singing dopey love songs that only become bearable when Jehan kisses Courfeyrac soundly on the mouth.

Enjolras, who only lets go of Grantaire's hand to eat, blushes and hums along.

*

The rest of their day at the hospital is a blur to Grantaire even now, nearly a week later.

Almost all the members of the ABC trickled in to see them, Eponine the highlight—she threw her arms around Grantaire in an entirely uncharacteristic hug and then looked rather like she'd like to slap him in the face. Cosette, too, nearly de-stabilized his ribs while Marius befriended Grantaire's parents with his surprisingly decent Arabic. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta came together, Musichetta and Enjolras talking animatedly about the CCTV footage. 

“I considered making a Vine out of the two of you falling,” she said. “But either way I still have access to it if you're interested—”

“I still don't understand what exactly happened,” Bossuet said, sitting down in Enjolras's wheelchair and doing a few expert loop-de-loops. He was in a walking boot now, his crutches finally abandoned, but he'd still been assigned to the rally when everything had gone down the night before. “Why did you have to fall off the balcony? I mean, the pictures look great, but let's face it—that's not exactly the smartest way to make an exit.”

“It's complicated,” Enjolras said.

“It's not,” Grantaire said. “We needed to guarantee that the president wouldn't press charges against Eponine. But we also needed him to know that we'd been there, so we couldn't just leave without telling anyone.”

“And the cameras were angled perfectly,” Musichetta said. “None on the balcony, only below.”

“Maybe the president and his wife are closet exhibitionists,” Bossuet suggested.

“Is there any evidence of that?” Joly said—a little hopefully, which made Grantaire contemplate the trio suspiciously. “Was there a hammock or something on the balcony? Cushions, maybe?”

“We needed the president to know that he couldn't alienate his students and make them feel unsafe in their own homes, so we did it to him,” Enjolras said, ignoring them. “Leaving would've made everything a waste. Eponine would've gone to jail anyway—which means we probably would've gotten caught eventually, too, now that I think about it, because they'd have to check the other cameras—and that accomplishes the task of making him feel unsafe, but he doesn't hear our message.”

“So we forced his hand,” Grantaire said. “He's the president of a university that's been surrounded in scandals for the last two years. He couldn't afford another one.”

“Clever,” Musichetta said. “But whose idea was it?”

Enjolras grinned, and Grantaire couldn't help but laugh.

Others came to see them, too. Grantaire's old painting professor sent flowers. Members of the boxing team, the dance team, and the debate team. Other leaders from student groups. Professor Reed even made a cameo, pressing her hands together and then mentioning that it was unlikely that Grantaire would ever get to grade one of Enjolras's papers again considering their current closeness.

“Don't worry, Professor,” Grantaire told her. “I've been deliberately avoiding his work all semester.”

Enjolras's mother came by, a predictably blonde woman whose voice, as Jehan might say, was full of money. She looked down her nose at Grantaire in that subtle way very rich people had, but she seemed mostly concerned about her son's well-being and insisted on his being given his own bed in Grantaire's room. Neither of them made much use of it, but Enjolras's doctor did drag him there for an inspection when he appeared in the afternoon. More importantly, she petitioned the school to install a ramp in front of their building—“It's just absurd that they expect you to walk up the stairs when you've only got the one leg, darling,” she told Enjolras, who sat in stony silence but, when she left, pumped a fist and said, “I've been trying to get the school to have a ramp installed there all _year_.”

*

With Enjolras, days start to fade into one another.

A surprising amount of time is spent at the library, catching up on the assignments they've missed. Grantaire takes on a boatload of work from Professor Reed, reads up on his art history papers, and sneaks away into the studio to finish his watercolor series. 

He and Jehan start painting together again, which Grantaire likes because it means he can bounce his ABC series ideas off Jehan and Jehan, who knows everyone in the ABC, can make suggestions that make sense. Cosette is more a siren than a mermaid, he insists, and so is Enjolras; Courfeyrac is a shark, but one of the nicer ones from _Finding Nemo_.

Grantaire lets his watercolor professor take a few of them to a student art display in Ithaca in return for extra points on his final grade and his name shown to more people in the industry. He's still reluctant to work in art, but at least, he thinks, staring at yet another internship rejection letter—at least people in the art world seem to _like_ his stuff.

That doesn't mean he responds to Professor Klein, though, whose emails have grown steadily more irritating in the days since Grantaire agreed to reconsider his offer. He doesn't hate Klein, exactly; he just thinks Klein is something of a fraud whose attitudes toward art run directly in opposition to Grantaire's own, and not in a way that he thinks is particularly reconcilable. That's why he mostly ignores the emails, and that's why when Klein eventually stops sending them, Grantaire feels relief instead of panic.

Grantaire gets another tattoo, this one little more than pattern and color etched onto his injured forearm, several inches below his rapidly-healing gash. He trusts the artist to do whatever he wants with Grantaire's vague prompting—“I just want to remember something painful that turned out good,” he tells her, and the artist shows him a few mock ups before starting on his arm. The pain is grounding in a way that his healing injuries aren't, and he dwells in it for a moment whenever things get too intense.

The members of the ABC crowd into the tattoo parlor with him, which irritates the artist because her shop on St. Marks is tiny—until they all decide to patronize her business. Most of them get something small, a new piercing or the letters “abc” carefully drawn somewhere inconspicuous. Courfeyrac gets a lip tattoo that the artist almost doesn't do but then decides to throw in since they're all using her services. Eponine gets a row of new piercings, silver hoops on her right ear, which swells and goes red in anger but does not become infected. Jehan gets ABC in white ink on the crook of his arm and it looks delicate and surprising against his dark skin. 

It takes them all the better part of a week to finish getting their tattoos and piercings, and they sit and compare them all in the last ABC meeting before finals.

Enjolras has been trying to call them to order for nearly an hour, but no one is cooperating. It feels more like a victory lap than like a meeting even though Combeferre has insisted they're going to start planning events for next year. 

Eventually, people start to settle down. Enjolras stands up, one knee bent to rest his broken leg on a chair someone's dragged to the front of the room. 

“I know that we're all here at school, paying some approximation of seventy thousand dollars a year for our educations, ostensibly learning everything we'll need for the rest of our lives in classrooms led by the most brilliant people in their fields. I know that. But I think—and I'm sure you'll all agree, because this isn't a particularly radical opinion—that the best of our learning, the most important part of it, comes from outside the classroom.” 

Enjolras looks down, but he doesn't have any notes. Grantaire wonders how he can speak so eloquently without them, but that's Enjolras's gift, he supposes. 

“I often think I know everything there is to know about a subject until I discuss it with one of you, or see it interpreted by someone outside of my field, or just see it in practice. I've sometimes even fallen into the trap of thinking of people like that, as something you can learn and understand the same way you can learn and understand a treatise or a doctrine. But people aren't like that, and as a result, society isn't like that. We can't predict what will happen as a result of our actions—that's why political science and economics are such complicated fields. We can simplify so much of it based on statistics and past events—but because we study humans, we continue to be surprised.” 

He pauses again. 

“Some people will tell you that humans are, at their cores, good. Others will say that they're evil. Still others will say that they're merely apathetic, and that this is the greatest evil of all. I tend to be in the first camp: as much as I would change about the world, I have to admit that we progress, inevitably, toward true equality and freedom even if we do sometimes take a step or two back. But I'm not here to preach to you about human nature, although if you do want to talk about it please feel free to come up to me at the Musain later.”

A few people laugh. Feuilly is actually taking notes.

“People inspire and disappoint us, and so society inspires and disappoints us,” Enjolras says. “That's why there's always a place here for hope and a place here for cynicism. That's why from time to time, the exceptional is necessary. We've accomplished what we meant to accomplish this year, and for all that there's plenty more to do—I think now is the time to relax, recharge, and return bright-eyed and full of ideas.”

He smiles. It's not the first time Grantaire has noted it, and it certainly won't be the last, but—Enjolras has a wonderful smile. Straight white teeth. Cheeks that actually dimple when he smiles for real. Eyes that squint just a little with the hint of laugh lines to come at their corners. Genuine warmth.

“Good luck on your problem sets,” Enjolras says.

“And your readings,” Courfeyrac says.

“And your writings,” Combeferre says.

There's a brief silence, and then the room fills with applause. It takes a minute or so for people to stop clapping—and clapping Grantaire on the shoulder until they notice him wincing—and start standing up to go to the Musain.

“Great speech,” Grantaire says, walking up to an Enjolras who has taken up his crutches once again.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says. “You inspired it.”

“Which parts? Hope or cynicism?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire like he really ought to know better.

“Both,” he says, and Grantaire can't find a response.

*

Finals take their usual toll on Grantaire: the semester, which rushed by him in a flood of anxiety and alcohol and then, toward the end, brief joy, vanishes before him. Three days into read week, he finds himself unable to remember anything beyond key terms about the various arts of the Middle East.

His laptop screen blurs in front of him, serifs blending into one another until he's sure all he can see are faint black lines against white. That, Grantaire decides, means it's time to take a break.

Enjolras has a final in the morning and is studying with his fellow poli sci majors. Jehan, bless him, is off enjoying the city, his finals for most classes short stories or poems or sculptures that he's already finished. Bossuet is getting his cast off, Musichetta and Joly in tow. Eponine and Cosette have taken to studying together in one of the engineering libraries, deciding, bizarrely enough, that the best way for one to study applied math and the other theoretical is to try and apply their respective theories to one another's work. Apparently it works.

It means, though, that despite texts from all of them and Facebook posts and various other social media outlets that they're all using as a means of procrastination, once again Grantaire is alone. 

He walks back from the library, campus lit only by a modest sunset. New York City pollution coupled with a famous skyline means most sunsets are stunning, but this one is plain, orange light fading behind neoclassical buildings. 

His bedroom is a welcome reprieve from studying: he's accepted one of Combeferre's tips, that he not study in his room during read week and finals, and as a result it's become more a place of comfort than the cinderblock-walled prison it was for most of the semester.

Still, Grantaire can't ignore the rush of anxiety in his gut, the idea that if he doesn't keep studying he will fail. 

He eats a late dinner sitting at his desk with his laptop open to a documentary about the art in question. It feels better than bingeing his way through a whole season of _Bojack Horseman_. The documentary is okay; but he already knows most of the stuff it talks about and so he skims flashcards with paintings on one side and years, artists, and movements on the other. 

It's a strategy he's always hated, flashcards, because he's always felt that there should be something more to his learning than assigning images to letters—but Grantaire thinks of himself at the Met, the better for knowing which painter went with which movement and what artists were trying to accomplish in one year versus another. It enhances the art. It changes its meaning. 

That gives him the motivation to get through another fifty flashcards, but eventually even Grantaire can't take the monotony anymore.

He texts Enjolras: _you still up?_

_yeah—probably pulling an all-nighter._

Grantaire starts to reply, but sees Enjolras is texting, and then: _don't say not to, i have a paper to finish by nine a.m. tomorrow and i only have eight pages and it needs to be 12 don't worry c &c are pouring me copious amounts of coffee_

_i still think it's a horrible idea & you should 100% get some sleep_

_so should you. you have no reason not to i saw your schedule on your desk this morning. sleep. we'll have breakfast tomorrow._

Grantaire smiles at the thought despite himself.

_sounds good. send coco my love._

A moment later, a Snapchat arrives: Enjolras, looking exhausted, looks sulkily into the camera. There are dark circles under his eyes and his glasses are pushed up on his head, tucking his hair back. He looks younger and older than usual at the same time. 

But there's the beginning of a smile there, too, and it makes Grantaire smile in his response. 

_good night_ , he captions it, and Enjolras takes a screenshot.

Grantaire, who knows himself well enough to know he's too wired on lingering caffeine and anxiety, chases half a Xanax with some whiskey and goes, at last, to sleep.

*

Grantaire's painting professor emails him toward the end of finals, requesting one last meeting before he leaves for a two week trip to Paris.

Grantaire heads over to the art building early one morning, leaving Enjolras sleeping in his bed (Enjolras gives an adorable little whimper when Grantaire moves away, and Grantaire, possessed by some horrible spirit of fluffy corny love, kisses Enjolras's cheek on his way out).

“Hi,” Grantaire says, sitting down in his professor's office, keenly aware of the last time he was in this position.

“How are you doing?” his professor asks, turning on an electric kettle and sitting in the massive plush chair on the other side of his desk.

“Much better,” Grantaire says, meaning it. “My ribs are almost completely healed—I have what's supposed to be a last check up after my last final tomorrow.”

“Am I distracting you from studying?”

“To be honest, I really needed the break.”

“I'm not surprised,” his painting professor says, stroking his scarce beard. “How is your art?”

“It's okay. I took watercolor this semester and it's helped me understand light and depth a lot better. The difference between layers and just gooping color on—that kind of thing.”

His professor smiles. “What do you have planned for the summer? Are you taking Professor Klein's offer?”

“No,” Grantaire says. “I told you. We don't—see eye to eye.”

“Evidently not. So you have an internship of some kind?”

“No,” Grantaire admits.

“Good.”

“Why's that?”

The kettle starts to whistle. Grantaire's professor stands up and busies himself making a pot of tea, which he brings to his desk and sets in front of him. He sets out two empty mugs and then sits back down.

“Because I want you to work for me.”

“No,” Grantaire says. “I'm not doing that again. There's a reason I didn't want to paint for Professor Klein—”

“Perhaps,” his professor says, “you will do me the great honor of listening to the end of my offer before deciding you will reject it.”

Grantaire falls silent for a moment. His professor raises his eyebrow, and Grantaire says, “Fair enough.”

“Do you know who I am, Grantaire?”

“Sort of,” Grantaire says. “My friend Jean Prouvaire—he was in our class, you remember—he said you're a big deal. But I don't know why exactly.”

“I was the youngest American artist to have a full show at the Met,” he says. “And then I stopped painting and started collecting. And then I started selling.” He stops, pours two mugs of tea. “Do you take milk and sugar?”

“No thanks,” Grantaire says. He actually hardly ever drinks tea, but he takes a sip of it anyway. It scalds the inside of his mouth.

“Careful,” his professor says dryly. “It's hot.” 

He regards Grantaire for a moment before continuing. 

“I'm not one to brag about myself—I've hardly ever needed to, you see. And that's not arrogance: it's just the truth. I have a certain … quality that makes people like the things I like. I show some beauty they have missed, and they come to understand why the things I believe to be beautiful are, indeed, beautiful.” He pauses again and tilts his head to the side. “I'm a curator of several galleries. I own one myself, in Chelsea. I hardly ever oversee the sales anymore—people trust my name enough to trust my choices. But when I'm requested, I make an appearance and help my customers to find the pieces that will best fit them. The trick is to think of them as people—and not merely as people, but as friends.”

“You're a good salesperson,” Grantaire says. “But what does that have to do with me?”

His professor leans back and tilts his chin up. He looks briefly at the ceiling before glancing back down at Grantaire. 

“I'm opening a new gallery in October,” his professor says. “It's in the Lower East Side. I have room to add five or six more works, and I'd like them all to be from the same artist.”

_This is the awards luncheon,_ Jehan said, all those months ago. _You've already impressed him._

This feels like a bit more than that, though. A victory lap.

Grantaire is sure he imagines it, but he blinks and the walls appear to move closer.

“I'd like them all to be from you. Your watercolor professor showed me your underwater series. It's beautiful. But I think you can do more, and I want to see it.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. 

“Do you still think your art to be subpar?” his professor says. “Sometimes all artists need is their first sale.”

Grantaire stares at him. “What?”

“You didn't come to our retreat during spring break. You'd do well to devote time in your life to art and only art.”

“I did that last summer,” Grantaire says. “It didn't work.”

“I think that has less to do with the artist and more to do with your battle with yourself, your latent but obvious dislike of Paris, and your inability to respect your instructor.”

“I don't _not respect_ him, I just—”

“You don't have to argue,” his professor says. Grantaire falls silent, and his professor actually laughs. “Here is the offer: you have until the beginning of September. Seven to ten pieces. Check in with me biweekly to show your progress. The school will offer you a stipend that should cover your housing and food. If you'd like extra money or if you find yourself bored, you are welcome to help me in the gallery. I will work on my end to build hype surrounding your name with some earlier paintings: a few of your portraits, the Paris piece that you hate, your Hudson painting, some of the watercolors; and anything that sells will, of course, be extensively photographed for your portfolio. That, too, should help you earn some spending money.” 

Grantaire blinks. It feels almost too good to be true. He takes a sip of tea to try to calm the churning in his stomach. It doesn't help.

“Professor,” Grantaire says, and the words come out before he can stop them: “Why me?”

His professor smiles.

“I've told you,” he says. “I think you have great potential. I want you to realize it.”

“That's an awful lot of trust to put in someone you only think has potential.”

“Potential and the ability to realize it is all most artists have. You've shown me inklings of the latter. Show me more.” His professor stands. “I expect a response from you by the end of the week. I'll have to wrestle your Seine away from Alan, but I'm sure he'll be happy to hear you plan to show in October.”

Grantaire stands, too. “Even if I'm showing with you and not him?”

“I'm not sure why you feel such contempt for the poor man,” his professor says. “All he did was like your painting.”

Grantaire stares at his half-empty teacup on the desk, and then looks up at his professor.

“Okay,” he says. “I'll do it.”

“You don't have to tell me right away. You have plenty of time to think about it—”

“I've thought about it,” Grantaire says. “I'm in.”

His professor smiles.

“I'll have a formal offer sent to you. You can accept it over email. I'll see you in a few weeks.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, swelling suddenly with a sense of gratitude that almost overwhelms his upset stomach. “Thank you. I—”

“Don't thank me. I'm making money off you.” 

His professor walks over to the door and opens it.

“Good luck with the rest of finals,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire says again, numb, and leaves.

*

He is unsurprised when, not long after, he starts to hyperventilate.

Grantaire is used to this feeling, and he manages it until he reaches the elevator in his building and then immediately loses control. It's familiar, the way the walls of the elevator feel like they're starting to squeeze in on him, and Grantaire curses himself for not carrying his backpack with its Xanax prescription bottle in it—but a thirty minute meeting with a professor shouldn't have caused an anxiety attack, and Grantaire stomps his foot on the ground in agitation a few times.

The elevator seems to take forever to reach Grantaire's floor, and by the end he's hunched over, fists clenched, waiting for it to be over, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that Grantaire half-thinks it's going to explode out of his chest.

He gets it together enough to walk to his room, but halfway there he breaks into a sprint. When he shoves his key into the door, his hands shake.

Enjolras is still there, though he's awake now, sitting up in Grantaire's bed with some flashcards, looking almost pristine in the threadbare t-shirt and boxer shorts he sleeps in. The only thing ruining the image is the black walking boot reaching almost to his knee. 

“I was wondering when you'd—shit—Grantaire—”

“I'm fine,” Grantaire tries to say, but his voice comes out croaky and wrong. 

He pulls open his desk drawer and tries to look for the bottle, but his hands shake too hard and Enjolras takes over, balancing on one leg and one crutch.

“Stop it,” Enjolras says. “I've got it.” 

He opens the bottle and shakes out half a Xanax for Grantaire, presses it into Grantaire's hand, waits for him to swallow it, and then hops up on Grantaire's bed and pulls Grantaire up next to him, an arm wrapped tightly around Grantaire's waist until Grantaire relaxes.

“I'm okay now,” Grantaire says. His hands still shake, but his voice comes out steady.

“What happened?” Enjolras says, his voice carefully even. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah—it's better than okay, actually—I'm just having a hard time believing that it's real.” And that he deserves it, and that he's going to satisfy his professor and sell paintings and—

“Did he offer you a job?”

“Sort of. He asked me to paint a few pieces for the gallery he's opening in the fall.”

A smile breaks out across Enjolras's face, then is quickly stifled.

“That's a good thing, right?”

“It's a great thing,” Grantaire says. “I mean—he was an amazing professor. He's a famous art dealer now. He—it's a good way to start.”

“Did you say yes?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations,” Enjolras says. “My boyfriend, the artist.”

“I'm showing in the Lower East Side in October in one of the city's most famous art dealers' new gallery,” Grantaire says. It doesn't feel real until he says it, and if the Xanax weren't starting to kick in he's sure he'd lose control again. “Jesus Christ.”

“So you'll be in the city for sure?” Enjolras says, leaning closer to nuzzle against Grantaire's neck and then nibble his earlobe.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, stretching his neck on instinct only to have Enjolras's firm fingers hold him in place.

“I was going to ask you to stay with me anyway,” Enjolras says, breath warm against Grantaire's ear. “We have plenty of room, and my mom seemed to like you. But I didn't think you'd say yes.”

“I probably wouldn't have.”

“We could've switched off. I'd stay in Jersey for the weekends, and you'd come to the city during the week.”

“You'd hate Jersey,” Grantaire says, sliding his fingers under the hem of Enjolras's shorts and stroking the spot on his inner thigh that Enjolras likes.

“Not your town, surely.” Enjolras's voice comes out strained, and he nips at Grantaire's neck.

“It's not the worst place in the world,” Grantaire admits. “Definitely not the worst place in Jersey.”

“Tell me about it,” Enjolras says, curling the fingers in Grantaire's hair and raking them through slowly. Grantaire's scalp tingles with pleasure.

Grantaire shrugs and draws his knees up on the bed, careful not to dislodge Enjolras. “Not much to tell. Former industrial mecca turned standard suburb. It varies by block—sometimes it's trees and white picket fences. Sometimes it's drive-thru Dunkin Donuts, gas stations, and truck stops. Housing projects near the schools.”

“Sounds like New York.”

“New York writ tiny,” Grantaire says.

“It's so weird to think I've lived in the US my whole life,” Enjolras says. “I've barely seen any of it. Parents always traveled abroad, and I never had much of an interest in seeing the suburbs.”

“I thought middle America was the world you were trying to save.”

“The whole world is the world I'm trying to save,” Enjolras says, and then sighs. “Maybe you're right. I should do a road trip this summer.”

“Do you even drive?”

Enjolras snorts, an act that's more physical than verbal and results in a slight tug at the back of Grantaire's scalp that evokes enough sensation for Grantaire's legs to drop back down of their own accord. “Obviously not. Can you picture me driving?”

“I can picture you getting really absurd road rage,” Grantaire says. His voice is hoarse.

“You'll just have to drive me around then,” Enjolras says, his fingers dropping to the base of Grantaire's neck and applying steady pressure. “We can visit Jehan's family … see Courfeyrac in D.C. … Bahorel'll be in Chicago … Combeferre in Boston …”

“Sounds great,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras kisses him and Grantaire, a little less shocked than the first time but still not quite accustomed to the sensation, smiles. Enjolras's other hand is already wrapped around Grantaire's leg, giving Enjolras a good enough foothold to half-climb into Grantaire's lap without letting go of the back of his head. Enjolras, walking boot and all, straddles Grantaire, his hand moving off Grantaire's thigh to grasp the front of his shirt.

“Is this okay?” he breathes into Grantaire's lips, and Grantaire, who couldn't respond if he wanted to, nods, gripping Enjolras's hips to steady himself.

Enjolras pushes Grantaire down on the bed, dragging his own body up so that he's braced on only his hands and his one good leg. 

“I feel like you're still holding back,” Enjolras says. “I don't know what it is.”

“What do you want?” Grantaire says, hands flat on the bed. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You're not doing anything wrong,” Enjolras says. “I just want you to be _you_.”

Something in Grantaire's chest swells at that, and he seizes the front of Enjolras's shirt so violently that Enjolras collapses against him, possibly dislodging a recently-healed rib. Neither of them pays any attention to this, however, because Grantaire has already sucked Enjolras's lip into his mouth and bitten down hard enough that Enjolras actually moans, loud and dirty and hot against against Grantaire's mouth, sending shivers up Grantaire's spine, and then laughs, a low breathy sound that sinks into Grantaire's skin and twists up his insides.

It still feels absurd to Grantaire that this is something he has the full permission to do, that he and not anyone else gets to see Enjolras like this, somehow the supportive friend and passionate leader and angry rebel all at once but with this otherworldly mess of _desire_ underlying all of it. Enjolras, his pupils dilated, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed, his hair a mess; Enjolras, hard, clutching at Grantaire like he's the only thing keeping him afloat.

And so Grantaire does the only thing he can think to do: he kisses Enjolras, a full, sloppy kiss, wet and dirty, the lightest suction that makes Enjolras's fingers twist in Grantaire's hair. Grantaire pulls away only to get another look at Enjolras's face, which is so red now—those two spots at the high parts of his cheeks, that look that says, _Hello, Grantaire, you've just pissed me off_ , or more recently, _Hello, Grantaire, please fuck me_ —and Grantaire can't take his eyes off Enjolras's lips, slightly swollen, shiny and scarlet. 

“You,” Enjolras whispers, his eyes closed, forehead pressed against Grantaire's. 

“Me,” Grantaire breathes back.

*

Marius and Courfeyrac throw a party for the end of the year that gathers the entire ABC in their mostly packed-up suite one last time.

People get emotional, which isn't surprising considering some of them will be away all summer and others—Bahorel, mostly—will be in a whole new city next year. The packed-up dorm room doesn't do much to dissipate these feelings, making the party seem a lot more like an ending than it actually is. Cambridge is only a few hours from New York. So is Washington. Most of the rest of the ABC will be in New York for the summer. 

But they drink together nevertheless, reminiscing about the year until they're drunk enough to dance with each other and with strangers. Grantaire, newly un-bandaged and feeling much lighter and freer than he has in months, enjoys himself thoroughly with all the usual suspects: weed when offered, a constantly refilled drink, sloppy kisses with Enjolras whenever they pass each other. 

Grantaire knows that he is capable of being two different kinds of drunk: there is the self-pitying, self-loathing caricature of a man that he becomes sometimes; and there is the happy, personable, people-loving extrovert that is his usual default state.

He's pleased to see that tonight, drunk off Musichetta's homemade sangria, it's mostly the second type of drunk. He feels cheerful despite the bittersweet mood in the room, and when the suite fills with people the ABC doesn't know he dances without feeling self-conscious, happy that his doctor finally told him he can re-engage in physical activity. 

Enjolras, still in a walking boot, sits in the corner of the room discussing theory and politics with anyone who'll sit still long enough. He has a drink in hand and laughs through his discussions, and every now and then he and Grantaire make eye contact across the room.

“You want to go upstairs real quick?” Eponine asks him, bumping up against his arm and holding two fingers a few inches from her mouth to mime smoking.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “You have cigs?”

Eponine nods. Grantaire follows her out the window, onto the fire escape, and up the stairs to the roof of Courfeyrac and Marius's now eerily empty home. She passes him a cigarette and a lighter. Grantaire looks out at the Hudson River and New Jersey before them. 

Tomorrow, he will move into university summer housing. 

After that, there will be long days full of art and long nights full of Enjolras. There will be evenings with friends and afternoons at MoMA. There will be painting and smoking and drinking. There will be runs at Prospect Park and work outs at athletic-department-funded designer gyms.

For now, there is fun to be had downstairs, friends to laugh with and drinks to mix. But Grantaire looks forward to long, lazy summer afternoons stretched out across his bed with Enjolras, beams of sunlight coming in through the vertical blinds. He can already imagine the quiet.

*

how should tasting touching hearing seeing  
breathing any–lifted from the no  
of all nothing–human merely being  
doubt unimaginable You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! This has been quite the ride for me. I really hope you enjoyed it, and I really hope it made your Halloween hangovers more bearable. Please leave a comment letting me know!
> 
> Some more notes / hangover helpers: a) I've uploaded a [Jehan/Courfeyrac deleted scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5081182) you can read. If you want to be notified about future deleted scenes, subscribe to [the philia series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/343435); b) my Les Mis Halloween Exchange fics are up now! I've written [one Enjolras/Grantaire break-up/make-up fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5031832), and [one Courfeyrac/Jehan fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4967443). I'm really proud of the Courf/Jehan fic—it's the most recent thing I've written other than parts of this epilogue, and I tried a totally different style when writing it that's changed the way I think about writing, so it's actually something I really like. 
> 
> Some final footnotes/credits: “From time to time the exceptional is necessary” is from Hugo's original text (and is actually said by Grantaire lol). The epigraph is from Cummings' “somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond.”
> 
> And finally: a million billion trillion thank yous to everyone who's read, bookmarked, left kudos, and commented. You've all made writing this fic fun instead of stressful, and I really hope you've enjoyed the ending because I certainly enjoyed writing it. I have a ton of love for all of you, and a special shoutout to all the lovely people who left comments when I begged for them. Nothing makes me happier than waking up to those AO3 emails.


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